


A sinner's prayer

by Nikkitosa



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 77,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7749739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikkitosa/pseuds/Nikkitosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valeria (Valary) was a normal, 21st century woman, who had everything she needed - friends, home, a job she loved. Everything changes when one day her world gets shattered by an unexpected trip back in time. Approximately 400 years back, that is. And in Paris, nonetheless. There she makes new friends and enemies on every corner and has to learn how to live a life, different from her previous one. And to top it all off, as if being a modern woman in ancient times isn't hard enough, she somehow manages to fall in love. ''The spiral down to hell is a bumpy road, as it appears. '' (Athos/OC)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What time is it?

Life is good when you are a twenty-six year old adult, with a decent job, a nice little home of yours and a small circle of trusted friends that gladly drag your drunken ass back home unharmed after a wild and clouded in oblivion Saturday night. Furthermore there are some pretty tempting bonuses of being alive in the 21st century such as complete independence, a freedom of speech and a decent amount of protectiveness that all make my life as perfect as I can hope it to be, being a woman in a foreign country. I’ll save you the retched story of how I came to be an editor in a London magazine, a writer of novellas and a free-lanced journalist without actually being born and bred in England, or any other English-speaking county for that matter. I’ll just throw it in here that apart from approximately 20 years devoted to studying English, graduating an English university and managing to acquire a British citizenship, and that one was as hard as all hell, I’m also a decent French linguist, a vehement swordswoman and a highlighted talkative representative of the no-longer harassed or suppressed softer sex. Apart from all that boosting, which I shared only in my desire for you to get to know me better and grasp the abnormality of my situation, I’ll put it out there that I’m a good Christian, despite not being religious but baptised, and believe in no way to have crossed a line with Him in any manner. Or if I did, it was unintentionally.  
So, like I was saying, life is good in the 21st century for a woman of my status that learned long ago not to have her knickers in a twist, or to let men harass her. Then how did I get rocket-launched 400 years backwards, in 17th century France, is beyond me. It’s like one second I was walking down the streets of London, minding my own business and fussing about whether or not to drag it upon myself to ask a man out on the upcoming corporate party, as the lucky bastard will initially prove to be a pain in my ass, when out of nowhere, as if a switch was snapped, everything went black. Next thing I know, I wake up in a square in the middle of the night, with severe headache and the desire to throw up the cheap Taiwan food I had not so many hours ago.  
The first thing that crossed my mind that faithful night was that I had probably had a little bit more to drink at my friend’s house and now am either hallucinating in the middle of a crowed street, with droll rolling down my face, or am simply dreaming after passing out. Both scenarios seemed equally horrifying, but not as much as the bitter reality that somehow, without my notice or agreement, I got kicked in the ass so hard I travelled back to 17th century France… or what I believed to be a 17th century French city. Which, conveniently, upon the shedding of some light the following morning appeared to be the capital. And dare I say Paris has never been this utterly shocking and repulsive as it appeared in my eyes back at day one.  
I’ll save you, in favour of yours and mine sanity, all the details as to how I came to accept my situation and find my way around, as that part is not only blurry in my mind, but also creeps me out beyond any reconciliation. The knight that came to my rescue is Madame Constance Bonacieux. She is the wife of a carpenter, who obviously values money more than her as he is rarely in her company. She took me in and pushed aside all prejudice and superstitions in favour of hearing me out. It was relatively hard for her mind to grasp the concept of time-travel, or a severe case of hallucination after alcoholic poisoning, but it was plainly obvious that I was far beyond local and too coherent-speaking to be demented. At first she was unyielding in her belief that I must have smacked my head somewhere pretty hard and my mind’s making all those crazy stories up, but after day three, and various questions I asked, which for her were boarding if not strange, then bare stupid, the conclusion that I may be halfway truthful started taking root. That’s when a small panic attack occurred, followed by an hour-long hysteria and some throwing of sharp objects my way, accompanied by babble about Satan’s spawn and so on, but I ignored all that in favour of putting the poor woman, now wrecked by all that out-of-her-world information, to some ease.  
Now, almost a month later, she’s mostly okay with my origin and the uniqueness I bear with each and every breath I take as a species of women that still don’t exist. To my claim that in my days women are free and equal to men, with various possibilities for personal development, she gaped, then laughter as if I had shared a good joke, then gaped again. After that many questions and clarifications followed, and with each and every word I said, she looked at me with bigger, shinier eyes, until eventually she blurred that she’d give anything to live in my world. I agreed on that one. 1630 France is no place for a woman to live in – men are pigs, barbarians, jerks beyond repair and lack all the romantic, middle-aged traits like chivalry that all the books brag about. In Paris now, under King Louis’ XІІІ rule, men believe themselves superior, smarter and generally more worthy of breath. Bollocks, from start to finish, but if a female wants to defend herself against all those claims, she’ll most probably end in jail or worse, killed. The first week of my integration with this new, drastically different and completely biased world, Constance took extra care in teaching me all I needed to know about being a woman of this time. No pants, but only dresses and corsets that serve as instruments for torture. No snarky remarks or back talking unless you want to get beaten; depraving from that – no fighting with men or challenging them, as fists don’t work well against the sharpness of their swords or the cool steel of their pistols. No challenging glares, no standing forward, no talking, no meddling in places I have no work into. No drinking in public places if alone as that leaves bad impression. Pretty much the two-hour talk was a bag filled with no-no’s and a few remarks I had to keep in mind as well as useful facts. Musketeers are the good guys and if in need, seek help there. Red guards? Dicks, avoid at all manner. May kick in the shins if a good runner, but not in that dress you won’t! Queen Anne is a lovely soul, God praise her. The Cardinal is a vile, two-faced retched snake, will be best if I never see or have the misfortune to grace with my presence. The men? They’re always right, even when they’re not, and unless you’re willing to fight for your right of mind, you’ll do better to keep your mouth shut. In that line of thoughts went the entire conversation. By the end of it, I was doubtful of how to react – cry or laugh. Or both. It was so ridiculous that it was bordering insanity, yet its truthfulness was, and still is, scaring the daylight out of me.  
Anyhow, I had one month to cope up and successfully mix with the locals, while in the meantime banging my head against the wall for ways of going back to my dear, normal, equality infused home, where I could kick a man’s ass when he deserved it and not be burned at the stake for witchcraft. Thankfully, the signs of my otherness are few if I keep my mouth shut, my hands fisted in my skirt and my eyes lowered. My French is fluent enough so not to raise any suspicion of my origin, and my manners, thankfully, are in a decent state despite being a tomboy for the better part of my young years. Now I help Constance with the chores in the house and look after the lodgers’ rooms, thus earning my stay and food. Apart from that, in the time I don’t dedicate to mindless walking around the streets of Paris, who are not half as bad in the daylight as long as someone doesn’t throw a bucket of shit on your head, I help in what can only find its 21st century equivalent as florists. The shop is little, tiny even, yet is brimmed with flowers, oils, herbs and whatever grows from the ground, thus making the scent in it hardly bearable for the women of 17th century, who know nothing, and never will, of the gas-infused, juncture-struck traffic balloon in all the big cities that makes the air almost unbreathable, toxic even. For them the muddy and overwhelming odour of earth and sweet flowers is enough to make them faint. So, as a woman with practice in the field of extreme breathing conditions and in need of money as those I had in my bag when I arrived are of no use here, I took up the job, halfway expecting to spend the hours there lounging in a chair, reading a book filled with old French I barely understand. How deluded I was that first day, as work was in excess and people narrowly missed bumping into one another. What were all these Parisians doing with so much greenery? And the constant traffic of beggars and pickpocket made me stand on guard. By the time I returned to the house, I was ready to collapse and wake up when 21st century came round.  
But, as a great man once said, with practise comes perfection, so in this one month since I’m here, I have become an almost impeccable Parisian mademoiselle. I say almost, because my tongue is as unruly as it has always been, my fighting spirit and sense of honour and self-respect are still intact and I take no bullshit from anyone – if a man gropes me, I smack him with something heavy and leave. On more than one occasion said ‘gentleman’ wanted to hit me in return, but a second set of punches came round, after which he was knocked out cold and the rest were left gaping like fishes thrown out of the water. Towards my endeavours with the male residence of the city and my uncanny ability to get in trouble ,Constance was more than worried, even trying to be instructive, yet how can you re-discipline a 26-yearl old woman, who grew up believing she has the right to walk this earth as the next man? To put it mildly, by now she’s given up.

/***/

It’s an somewhere in the middle of the night as the sun’s still far away from showing its dazzling round face from behind the horizon, when steps from downstairs jerk me awake. Being the light-sleeper I am, even the most harmless noise can snap me out of my daze in any hour of the night, ready to fight or scream, whichever comes in handy. Now, as the thud of more than one pair of feet, distinctively male by their loudness and lack of graciousness, fill the eerily silent house, I throw the covers away and stand up. Growing up with three brothers that made it their lives’ mission to scare the daylight out of me on any possible occasion, since the delicate age of 10 I learned to sneak soundlessly and inflict if not mortal, than definitely painful damage to whoever ended on the receiving end of my wrath. With only my nightshirt on and a pair of boxers I came here with, for a whole minute I stand still, straining my ears to hear something, anything, moving downstairs. True to my initial instinct, there are steps and muffled voice coming from right below me, meaning that there’re night visitors roaming the living room. The trek to my desk from where I pull my sword, a present I made to myself after collecting enough money, and out of the room is soundless, not a single board creaking under my weight, there’s no shuffling of clothes, and my even breath doesn’t betray the rapid heartbeat in my chest. On the top of the stairs I stop, once again straining my ears. The voices are louder now, more pronounced and definitely male, and are indeed coming from the living area. Looking over my shoulder at the pitch black corridor, for a second I wonder whether I should wake up Constance and that husband of hers, or deal with this on my own. ‘If they’re thieves, I’ll manage – what fighting abilities can a man forced to burglar houses possibly have? Not as good as mine, that’s for sure’. Having spent four years in intensive training in the arts of fencing and sword throwing, the first being my father’s wish and the latter my own whim, my personal opinion regarding my fighting abilities with a pointed weapon is quite high and with reason.  
The utter darkness that’s still engulfing the house is sharply broken by a glimmer coming from where the intruders are. Descending down the stairs like a cat, with grace and fluent motions that almost rejects the laws of Murphy, by which a board should have creaked quite pronouncedly by now, I reach the platform and hide in the shadows near the wall. It takes a simple peek over around the corner to see what’s going on in the room and estimate my opponents. Yet the possibility of getting spotted is higher in chance due to the bad angling.  
“This is not only reckless, but also suicidal!” a male voice that sounds somewhat gallant, almost alluring, hisses lowly to whatever his partner said.  
“Aramis is right – if we get caught, we’re as good as dead.” another male voice, this time remarkably younger and juvenile responds, making the invaders two.  
“It’s a good plan, as long as Madame doesn’t rethink her choice…” a third male voice, gruff and somehow reminding me of the roar of a bear adds in, his hush sounding comical in its inability to stay silent.  
Silence befalls the room, making my muscles tense with anticipation as the adrenalin in my blood pumps faster and my heart, despite my best attempts, ramps against my chest so loudly that I fear the intruders may hear it. The lack of any movement, speech or an indicator of any sorts further irritates me, as the unknowingness of what they’re doing pulls at my nerves with almost painful resolve. By now my eyes have gotten accustomed to the dim light that cuts at the darkness and the feeling of the cold floor under my bare feet, yet standing still, not twitching, is what drains me of my patience.  
“I think it all comes down to you, Madame. It’s your life that’ll be in direct danger.” a forth male voice breaks the intense silence and somehow peeks my interest – it sounds gruff, yet calm and serene, not lacking the strictness all the other three had as well.  
Growing up with a military father, I know when a man is disciplined and when he’s being a douche. Whoever these men are, and whatever they want, one thing is for sure – they are no mere burglars; not with such confident voices that even do not comply to the bare minimum of volume of speech. ‘And they’re saying each other’s names. Either they’re a bunch of amateurs, or something entirely different is brooding here.’ with a frown on my face, the grip around the hilt of the sword tightens as I prepare to barge in there and kick some male ass. Yet before having the chance to put together a decent plan for action, steps come my way in a fast pace, and my heart literally jumps in my throat. ‘Now or never.’ the cool resolve to protect Constance and the long years of self-imposed toughening of nerves save me from cowering away this very instant at the sound of thudding male steps. Instead, as soon as the intruder comes in reach, I jump from behind the wall and with a fluid movement press the edge of my sword against his chest. In this light and with the fast unfolding of events I can only make out his strange clothes, unfitting for a poor man, and his dark skin. He exclaims at my sudden appearance, yet obviously halfway having expected an attack as he raises his sword and blocks mine. He’s respectably higher than me, and heavily muscled by what I can make out, but I have the advantage of a different angle point and agility. Three strikes later, one almost decapitating him, a female voice shrieks quietly with horror.  
“Val!?” Constance’s voice breaks my concentration, as for once I didn’t expect her to be here, and that moment’s notice is what gives my opponent the upper hand.  
With a single motion he disarms me and points his own sword at my chest, not with the intention of hurting, but to ward me off.  
“Well, that was quite unexpected.” the same gallant voice from before now holds tingles of amusement.  
“Pothos lower you sword! Heavens, Val! What are you doing here?”  
Constance rushes to my side and gingerly checks me for any injuries while I eye nastily the big oaf of a man before me. He doesn’t seem offended that I attacked, or even angry, but like his accomplice amused and intrigued.  
“I heard noises and came to check. Thought there were burglars in your house.” the cool steel in my voice gives away my still present conviction that they are the bad guys.  
A roar of laughter is the reply to my words, and the big man retracts his sword, obviously no longer deeming me harmful.  
“No, no. Oh, good Lord! They are no burglars! They’re Musketeers!”  
Her exclamation, filled with silent worry makes me scoff and look at her as if she’s kidding. The serious look painted on her face tells me otherwise. Only now do my eyes shift from her petit form, hidden in her night robe, to the men in the room. The one before me, the bear-voiced oaf, appears smug and self-assured, like a man who knows his worth; nothing like a convict or a poor fellow who fell the wrong way. The next closest is the youngest in the group and appears familiar yet I cannot put my finger from where. Next comes a handsome male specimen, tall and lean, with a charming smile on his lips and finely trimmed moustaches. His eyes catch the flicker of the candle nearby and acquire a mischievous tint. Last is the one who still has his sword halfway drown. He bears the serious look of a man who still sees me as a potential threat and won’t hesitate to take me out if the occasion calls for it. With his front cast in shadows, I can merely make out his strong jaw, straight nose, broad forehead covered under unruly dark hair and the piercing look in his eyes. Everything in him reminds me of the description of a royalty or at least, a man from the nobility. Yet all four of them are clad in matching outfits – leather and more leather; and are heavily armed – pistols, swords, daggers. The frown from before, temporarily replaced by wonder at my friend’s claim that they’re from the King’s guard, now reappears, this times even grimmer, matching the one of the last man.  
“This is Monsieur Porthos you just fought.” the man makes a respective bow, his eyes holding a good-humour laughter and a feeling of approachability.  
“Next is D’Artagnan who you’ve already seen.” the young resident of the house, who I spotted once or twice walking down the staircase but completely neglected, gives me a tense, almost scornful smile.  
“Monsieur Aramis.” the more beautiful than handsome man makes a gallant bow before looking at me with unhidden mirth.  
“And Monsieur Athos.” the silent one with the air of authority around him, whose strict voice I heard seconds before coming out of my hideout, barely graces me with a sideway glance, let alone a nod.  
“And this is Mademoiselle Valary Bellanger. She’s a friend of mine.” not minding her introducing me in front of these men, after a nod of acknowledgement, a greeting left from my old world, I immediately return to my distrustful self.  
“If they truly are Musketeers, then what the hell are they doing in your house in the middle of the night!?” it’s an art that needs praise, keeping my voice levelled and emotionless when I want to shriek like a banshee.  
“They are in need of help.” the guilty tune in Constance’s voice makes me look at her yet again and notice the plea in her eyes.  
I’m no fool; the times are such that if her husband happens to walk in at this very moment, the scene will turn gruesome and vile. Monsieur Bonacieux may lack the sparks of violence in him that will aid him in molesting his wife, but his cutting tongue will find no rest, thus making my violent nature kick in. Understanding what a mess will come out of all this, I sigh and shake my head. ‘Stranger things have happened to me.’ I notice with irony and cross my hands under my chest.  
“I hope the explanation is good, ‘cus I’m not moving an inch until I know what are three men and a boy doing in your house, in the middle of the night, with you amongst them!” knowing that there’s no place for arguing and that I’m dead serious, obligingly she nods.  
“It’s not what it looks like.” are the first words that leave the young man’s mouth. “And I’m no boy!” are the second.  
“I was with the impression of talking with Madame Bonacieux and not with you, so refrain from any further indulges until asked otherwise.”  
Using my superiority, not only in age, because if you draw the line I’m over a few centuries older than him, but also my upbringing that has made me jealously protective over women, is more of a reflex than repulsion. Constance has a mouth of her own, she can tell me everything, thank you very much!  
“I like her.” the sassy one with the nice moustache whispers to his comrades that once again sit around the table, this time their eyes on us.  
Barely spearing Aramis a glance I pick up my discarded weapon and lean it against the wall, in near reach.  
“They need my help with a mission. And before you blow your top, hear me out!” the last part is said in a single breath as my eyebrows shoot straight into my hairline.  
Sweet innocent Constance? An assistant in Musketeer business?  
“I knew you had it in you to be brave, but I admit I didn’t see that one coming.” despite my best attempts, a small smile finds its way on my face as I shake my head.  
‘I have really lost the touch to be surprised. Next thing I know, I’ll no longer fear death.’ Having gotten used to my foreign way of speaking, she takes no notice of the strange wording, unlike the men, who look at each other in confusion.  
“Oh, you! Don’t mock! They need me!” her drawl, so meek and appealing, now sounds like a small child is whining to its parents, making her look even more adorable.  
“Enlighten me.” by now, a full blown smirk is plastered on my face, as excitement from the very thought of Constance being a Batman in disguise makes me mentally whoop for her.  
“It’s Musketeer business.” the gruff, even husky voice of the gloomy-looking Athos sounds, making me look at him from over Constance’s shoulder, one eyebrow raised in challenge.  
“Well, very uncharacteristic place to discuss Musketeer business, Monsieur.” I immediately snap back as his cold and almost banishing voice stirs something in me.  
A small glare contest follows as neither of us breaks contact, or lowers the iciness in their eyes.  
“Wow. This is new.” the Porthos whispers to his friends, obviously intrigued by my insolence and straightforwardness.  
“She’s definitely a worthy match at this point.” Aramis adds, amusement lingering in his words.  
“Oh, enough you two!” once again the peace-bringer is little vehement Constance, the woman who punches harder than one expects from such petit body, “We may need her help!”  
At that Athos scoffs and rolls his eyes, as if what she said is complete nuisance.  
“Hold your horses there Constance!” turning my piercing, extraordinary eyes at her, she twitches nervously.  
I suffer from a clinical case named heterochromia, basically meaning that I have decolouration of one eye, thus one is deep bark-brown while the other is forest green. This abnormality made people in my old world feel unease whenever I looked at them sharply. Imagine what happens here, where witchcraft is still fashionable. ‘I must not tempt faith. There’s still time for someone to claim I charmed his cows and made them die.’ a small diabolical snicker reverberates in the back of my mind at the absurdity of such a statement. Yet at this time of age, medicine is still rather primitive and such diagnoses as lack or excess of melanin are rather foreign and easily mistaken for Devil’s sign.  
“Now, indulge me as to what exactly you have been up to all night?” leaning against the wall and lifting one foot of the ground in an attempt to chase away the chilliness, I prepare for something either highly absurd or suicidal to leave her lips.  
“A pregnant woman has been kidnapped and locked away. We need to save her or they’ll kill her at sunrise.” the words are barely distinguishable, such is the zest with which she says them.  
Looking at the men questioningly, expecting verification of what my friend said, all four of them nod, their faces now once again grim.  
The jolliness from the prospect of having a laugh with the whole situation melts away in an instant. A woman with a child in mortal danger, and no one is willing to help apart for a handful of men and a woman? A deeply-rooted despise and hate towards society surfaces, making my insides curl with fury at the injustice and cruelty called upon the heads on a mother and her unborn child. Yet this rage stays simmering underneath the surface, while on the outside I only frown.  
“Why is your help needed?”  
“It’s heavily guarded – if they catch us even nearing they may kill her.” Porthos adds, his voice now coming out more as an animal’s growl than human speech, reminding me once again of an infuriated bear.  
“A woman can enter easily, though.” D’Artagnan adds, his face a mask of seriousness and concentration, yet with hues of worry and distress.  
It’s obvious there’s more to it, which conveniently they keep to themselves. Looking around the room, I find no one volunteering to share the worst part in tonight’s mission.  
“What’s the best part you’re holding back?” in mock interest, I once again look at Athos, as he seems the only one who doesn’t care how I may react.  
“The building is a brothel.” he throws the bomb with an air of nonchalance and ease, as only a man who has no idea what’s the feeling of selling your body to others feels.  
A second of silence prolongs as I quickly make a mental picture of the situation – a place heavily guarded and filled with scarcely clad women, drunk men, and other not so drunk ones yet heavily armed, thus dangerous and impossible for an easy entrance. A woman, hot-tempered indeed, but defenceless none the less, enters and what? Throws the villains through the window?  
“So you are telling me you will go, unarmed and unable to fight, in a place unreachable by the only men that can help you and risk your life?”  
“Yes.” her stiff nod and the resolve burning in her eyes make me scoff, yet a tingle of pride surges though me; an independent woman in the flesh, from the 17th century!  
“Uh, no way!” I retort and look at her as if she’s insane. “If I close my eyes at the prospect of being amongst men that most probably will take you for a walking sex slave and in the best case try to grope you, what will you do when they figure out why you have infiltrated such a place!?” it’s hard to keep my voice at bay when Constance, the woman that sheltered me, heard the truth about me and tried to understand, is now so recklessly throwing herself in danger’s way.  
“Do you have a better idea?” obviously irritated, the youngling looks at me with narrowed eyes.  
“Actually, yes, I do. She won’t go, because they’ll kill her or worse. No offence Constance, but your uppercut can hardly take out a man twice your height.”  
“You are proposing?” Porthos inquires.  
“Stick to the initial plan, of course. That’s as good as it can get.”  
“We still need a woman to enter.” pointing out as if I’m an idiot, the sassy Aramis looks at me almost apologetically after I glare his way.  
“Thankfully, there’s another woman around, who can kick men’s asses as she goes. And by sheer luck she enjoys it.” I retort and smirk at their faces, pictures raging from shock to amazement to disbelief.  
“You can fight?” Porthos looks ready to laugh.  
“You have no idea.” the dark, almost wolfish smirk, enhanced by the shadows the candle throws over my face, makes the billow die out in his throat.

/***/

The streets are deserted, apart from a few stray cats, whose eyes gleam in the dim light of the full moon as they follow our movements before darting back into the thickness of the shadows. The gravel, apart from generally being a pain to my feet, is now also hard to make out, so more than once I have to lift my long heavy skirt up in order not to trip and kiss the dirty ground. Courteously looking to the side whenever I decided to do so, the four men and Constance lead the way and make no retort at my various curses, muttered in a foreign for them language, whenever I slip or trip.  
“Are you sure you can do this?” still worried about whether it’s a good idea to send a morally burdened woman, whose desire to beat the men in the bordello with their detached limbs is stronger than her sense of self-preservation, my dear friend now comes to walk by my side.  
“I can handle a bunch of alcohol-infused men, Constance, don’t worry. I get in, ask around, find the woman and then give the signal.” summarising the plan is not the best way to calm her down, yet how can I convince someone like her, a female brought up to believe women are fragile, despite not being such herself mind you, that my own father has taught me how to fight and defend myself.  
“No need for uncalled bravery or provocation.” Athos intervenes, obviously catching the vehemence in my voice.  
Looking over his shoulder, so to make his point clear, under the brim of his hat I catch his sky-blue eyes almost bearing sparks of concern. Yet as fast as they appear, they’re gone and the coldness and distancing return, drawing a harsh line between the man who actually cares for the brave hothead that strolls head first into danger, and the Musketeer who sees said female representative as a potential weak link that he’ll have to answer for. ‘A pity he keeps everyone a few steps away. Under all that authoritative coolness and the dangerous demeanour, he’s most probably a nice guy with a gentle heart that a bitch once hurt.’ having seen such cases more than I care to remember, the signs of inner turmoil and hurt, a wound that still bleeds and a scarred soul, are almost plain obvious.  
Another chain of curses follows as I hit my foot in a slightly risen stone, the searing pain snapping me out of my thoughts.  
“If this keeps on going, we’ll never make it in time.” Aramis remarks patiently, as he halts and waits for me to stop the vulgar chain of curses, compose myself and once again continue the small trek.  
“I’ll be quick. Go in, find the woman, give the signal and go out.” stating through gritted teeth, as my skirt is once again draping behind me and the corset squeezes the oxygen out of my lungs, irritating me further. “That is, if I don’t faint due to lack of air.” muttering to myself, I skip to notice yet another rise in the gravel, thus tripping.  
A mutual groan follows from all four, while Constance inquires of my well-being.  
“Are we close?”  
“Behind the corner.” Aramis is about to add something more, but closes his mouth immediately at the sight of me grasping the long crimson skirt and lifting it all the way above my knees.  
The mantle I tossed over my shoulders so to hide the fact that my girls are about to pour out from the tightly fitted corset, gets pushed open, leaving pretty much everything for the naked eye to see. Discarding the fact that now all four men are openly staring at me, I march forward, hands fisted in the heavy material and keeping it out of my way. Being a fast-pacer, with small yet quick steps I melt away the distance between where they still stand and stare and the brothel.  
The house is a massive two-storey building that makes an L shape, with its longer bottom wing spreading out towards the back where a garden of some sorts must lay. The flow of men in various clothing, from fancy to pretty simple, is unstoppable and quite chatty. Gentlemen from the high society get off their carriages with the air of aristocracy surrounding them, yet the gleam of a primal predator in their eyes easily cracks their masks. Only three of four women, also not from this part of town, emerge from within a fancy ride, throw a glance around, then enter. I’m dumbstruck for approximately a minute before rage suffocates my cry. ‘Inside will be even worse.’ I realise and ball my hands, now free of the skirt, into fists to stop them from shaking.  
“You know you must not give away your cover, right? As horrendous as it is to enter such a place, and believe me I’d have gladly taken up your place if possible, you must stay focused and find Madame Arlene.” Aramis’ soft voice, calming yet holding the tingle of urgency in it, snaps me out of my stupor.  
“I’m aware,” looking over my shoulder at the men that have now circled me in a protecting manner, I feel a surge of worry that undermines my confidence. “But what if we can’t get out?”  
“We’ll get in.” Porthos states, his eyes fixated on the house and a dark shadow casts over his features.  
Nodding and breathing in deeply, I call forward my accumulated with years confidence of a free and independent woman, that seeks justice and feels no fear or remorse. Drawing the line between two polar sets of worldview, I fall into character.  
The cloak is passed to Constance who gives me a worried look, her deep brown eyes now twinkling with apprehension. She knows as well as all of us that if I get caught faking to be a harlot, the men in there won’t feel remorse in using me as such, just to teach me a lesson. A weary smile stretches my lips before I nod and stride forward with the steps of a woman that had too much to drink. ‘I wish I actually did though. Those two cups won’t keep my nerves intact the whole night.’  
As it appears, entering is way easier than getting out, as at the very entrance there’s a woman dressed scarcely yet tastefully, with too much makeup on her face and a strange hairdo. She smells decently clean, which is shocking as the only bath here is the public one and a harlot can hardly take the liberty of using it. Yet the one who looks me up and down, her chip nose scrunched in thought as she most probably doubts my motifs, is quite clean and good-looking, meaning that unless I’m mistaken and the whores here are better kept than I believed, than this is the Madam. She stares at me for some time, walks around and studies my body before nodding her approval. Apparently one-night girls are not a matter to be cautious of. Once inside, I realise I liked the house a lot better from the opposite end of the street. While the exterior still carries that old-time atmosphere, the inside looks like a unicorn has vomited pink glitter all around, or at least the 17th century edition.  
The walls are covered in already moulded wallpapers in colours that once were probably pretty, but now look like a scene plucked straight out from a horror film .The furniture, mostly consisting of armchairs and sofas, is scattered in haphazard manner and is mostly occupied by men with drinks in their hands and wolfish smirks on their fat faces. It’s a challenge not to turn heel and flee, yet the thought of a pregnant woman being held captive here somewhere stops such thoughts of reappearing. My stride is still uneven, highlighted drunk, and the look on my face says many controversial things, yet men appear attracted by my foreign looks. Thankfully the light is dimmed to such an extend that my eyes don’t look that different and besides, my breasts, now reaching my neck, win all the glory and looks. Looking around, I spot the guards Aramis warned me about – men dressed like well-paid outlaws, with grim and bearded faces. A distinguishing mark is another trait he pointed out, so as I pass by one of them, I bump ‘accidently’ in him. Catching me by instinct rather than chivalry, I use the opportunity and pull at the collar of his shirt – a black tattoo in the form of an eye looks back at me for a second before I pull away with a drunken giggle and move on.  
Ten minutes later and a few unfortunate collisions with men who desired to push themselves where they were not wanted, I end up in the lap of one of the bad guys. He looks as old as me, yet his dark, sun-kissed face and the thick beard do little to chase away the evil sparks in his eyes. In a moment of despair, as I didn’t see or hear anything of a pregnant woman being around, I decided to risk it all and just go to the source. This guy appears the most appealing choice so I throw myself at him, all slutty and ‘horny’ and kiss his neck. The sour taste left on my lips almost makes me gag, but I push down the bile and give him a lustful smile. In no time he’s dragging me on the second floor where the private rooms are, his large hand wrapped around my wrist as if I’m about to flee. Truth be told, as I ascend the stairs, the knot in my stomach makes me doubt the adequateness of this plan. Thankfully any second-guessing is cut short as he pushes me in a room, presses me against the wall and clashes his lips against mine. The foul smell of alcohol, unwashed body and something decomposing snaps me out of my stupor. My leg gently moves between his thighs, as if teasing him, but as soon as I can reach down and pull a small dagger from under my skirt, my knee collides with his groin. In a flash my hand covers his mouth and I spin us, the knife firmly pressed against his neck as he glares at me.  
“Be quite and I may spear you.” the lack of any emotion in my voice seems to sober him up and he’s about to make a move when the sharp end of the dagger digs deeper into his throat. “I don’t fancy repeating myself.”  
Pulling hastily at his collar and making sure he’s the right guy, I ignore the loud beating of my heart in favour of keeping my voice stern and even.  
“I know you and your friends kidnapped a pregnant woman. I want you to tell me where she is.”  
For a second he stays silent, his black coal eyes looking like holes in his head, as something dark and foul bends his face, turning it into a mask of rage and spite. ‘This man is a lunatic through and though. Cut the chit-chat and get to business.’  
Pressing the dagger even harder against his throat, I hiss lowly, threateningly while I hold his gaze.  
“Where. Is. The. Woman?” yet silence befalls us once again.  
Feeling like I’m wasting the little time me have left, resolving to violence appears as the only probably solution.  
“One last time before I start chopping you like a chunk of cheese. Where is she?” the animosity in the icy underlining of my otherwise calm and even sweet voice finally evokes a response – a sparkle of fear rushes past his features and too late does he manage to conceal it.  
“Speak, or I’ll return you to your friends in bulk.”  
“You’ll never get to her. She’ll be killed, and you along with her.” the malice in his slurry voice disgust me beyond belief.  
“Lead the way and let’s see who shall face his death tonight.”  
Once on his feet, with his weapons thrown away and mine hidden skilfully between our bodies, not even for once do I lower my guard as he leads the way.  
“You’ll tell your friends we’ll have some fun in the back and that they mind their own business. Make sure they don’t trail us. If you slip I’ll gut you like a fish before they draw their pistols. Am I clear?” emphasising my point by digging the dagger deeper into his lower back, I smile bitterly.  
He simply nods, eyes filled with hatred.  
The room we enter in spacious, obviously a used-to-be VIP suite of some sorts, but now is pretty much destroyed and bears that vulgar dishevelled look the whole whorehouse has. On the once expensive furniture now sit seven men, armed to the teeth and drinking from a bottle with a questionable content. After the small theatre goes as planned, with even some groping from my prisoner’s side, for which he’ll pay later, we move onward. Once in the next room I push him against an armchair, the dagger to his throat once again.  
“Where is she?” I insist, my patience growing thin.  
Yet the male just smirks, showing a set of unhealthy teeth, and mocks me with his eyes. In an instance the rage that’s been accumulating ever since I entered, surfaces and the dagger drives though his right hand.  
“If you make a sound, I’ll slice your throat open and won’t even bath an eyelash. Now, answer me. Where is she?”  
Obviously fighting his wails of pain, and probably rage, the male gives me a look that promises vengeance before nodding towards a door in the opposite end.  
“You’ll never make it out of here alive. They’ll rape and kill you.” the sick snicker makes something in me revolt, yet my unyielding self-discipline once again keeps my consciousness and fear at bay.  
Giving him a tight smile, I let go of the dagger and with a swift movement hit him. My hand throbs, as I put more strength then necessary in a smack that was badly calculated, but it’s worth it. Dark complacency and a victorious smile take away the pain for a second before I remember that the Musketeers are still waiting for my signal. Quickly pulling the dagger out of that man’s hand, I near the room with hasty yet still soundless steps. For a second I hark around the door, anticipating any incoming danger, and after hearing nothing worth worry, I risk and push the door ajar. Right ahead there’s a man, with his back facing me thankfully, drinking from a bottle and eyeing the woman that’s sitting in the furthest end of the room.  
Seconds is all I have to react, as she notices me and too late complies that with her widened eyes she gives away my presence. The man’s about to stand up and turn but I quickly raise the poker I grabbed from the previous room and bring it down onto his head. He falls without a sound, apart from the thud.  
“Who… who are you?” the teary voice of the woman, no older than me, is laced with both hope and worry.  
“You are Madame Arlene I suppose?” looking at her visibly rounded tummy a smile appears on my face as I pull the tablecloth from the tumbled over coffee table.  
Unable to speak as shock and fear still rule over her body, she nods, now looking anxious and tired.  
“I’m here to get you out.” looking out of the window and praising my lucky star for that this room looks directly at the Musketeers’ hiding place, I push open the wooden frame.  
“What are you doing?” sounding horrified at the prospect of me falling out, or jumping, the woman springs up and tries to grasp me.  
“I’m signalising my friends. They’ll come and get us out.” while speaking I wave the white cloth, mentally counting as each wave means an enemy they need to pass through.  
At the twentieth swipe I stop and retract my hand. Arlene, with her messy copper hair and huge, dewy green eyes looks like a woman who just woke up from a nightmare. In her state of heavy pregnancy the distress she was made to endure will not go without a backlash at her or the baby, but at that very moment I don’t want to think of it. Smiling encouragingly at her and squeezing her hand, I try to keep my voice calm and reassuring, as what’s about to happen will definitely further stress her.  
“A fire will break out any minute now, so be ready to move if needed. You need to remain calm and breathe.” I add in quickly as the horrified look on her face drains the last remains of colour.  
“A fire?” she raps and wobbles on her feet.  
Putting her back down in the armchair, I offer her some water.  
“Worry not, Madame. I have it all planned out.”  
While saying that I push the cupboard towards the door, successfully blocking it. To that action she exclaims with fright.  
“You are locking us in a burning house! Are you insane!?”  
“I’m keeping the men that kidnaped you away from you until my friends come. And about the insane part, yes, I believe I’m a little insane at this point.”  
For a safety precaution, or mostly out of habit, I turn the key in the hole and lock the doors. Seconds later, as if on cue, screams reach us from the first floor and the thudding of many steps deafens out the various cries for help. The word fire has just been yelled by someone when the doors in the first room burst open, male voices shouting and cursing.  
“Stay calm and breathe.” still level-headed by exterior, I remind myself that later, if I make it out of here alive, I’ll have enough time to hyperventilate.  
Fetching the fallen man’s sword and his pistol I tumble over a table and take cover behind it as the doors begin to shake, angry male voices and curses reaching us over the cacophony of the people running downstairs.  
“Can you shoot?” I ask as I open the window so to allow oxygen to enter and in the meantime steal a glance at the lawn down.  
“Y-yes… I believe so ,yes.” Arlene stutters as the vulgar words coming from the other side of the door soon get muffled by kicks and shooting.  
“Good. Because I can’t. Here you go. Aim for those who attack and try not to shoot me.” some humour in situations like this is never appreciated, yet the woman in front of me shares a ghost of a smile before grabbing the pistol and loading it.  
A whole minute passes and the wooden doors begin to give in under the vile harassment of the men on the other side. The smoke from the fire as well as the heat are present and the panic that I try to suppress can be seen written on my companion’s face.  
“Don’t worry. They’ll come. And while they do, make sure not to get stressed out too much.” it’s futile to try and ease her nerves, as the dooming air around us it too thick to fight with.  
Suddenly there’s a loud crashing sound and the doors, alongside the cupboard, come crashing down. Men enter and in that instance Arlene, whose maternal instinct finally kicks in, begins to shoot. It takes time for her to reload, so I lung forward at the first man that dears move and my sword passes through his middle with ease. The sickening feeling of the steel cutting at flesh like its paper is suppressed instantaneously by the roar of another man who jumps at me. A bullet in the neck sends him flat on his back.  
Another bear-like vigilante comes yet I successfully stop his attempt to decapitate me and instead slice his throat open. My moves are mechanical, yet precise, as in my mind it’s all a matter of life and death. Feeling like a really volatile movie is being played before me, like I’m just made to watch rather than participate, makes my mind smudge the lines between morally expectable and not. Bullets whistle all around, men shout and curse, there’s the clash of steel against steel and the sickening gurgle of blood pouring out around me, making something in me revolt wildly as human beings are losing their life here, by my hand. Yet my current opponent quickly drags me back to the present as he manages to successfully land a blow and send me flat on my back, crashing into a tumbled over stool. My grunt is low and painful as waves of needling pain run up and down my spine. The man before me, an oaf of a creature with a stupid, blood-thirsty look on his face, sneers and quickly grabs me by the throat, choking the remaining air straight out of my already sore lungs. It’s pointless to fight such a mass of muscles and opacity, and honestly I have no more power to do so. Yet something in me keeps on kicking and tossing, a very deeply-rooted spark has my body twitching and convulsively trying to break free. As my nails tear at my soon-to-be killer’s face, I know that what keeps me going is the desire to live, to not die in a place and time that’re not my own, in a whorehouse, any less by the hands of a mercenary. Yet it’s all in vain – my powers are severely weakened by all the events that unfolded tonight and even if they weren’t, what chance do I have against a man such as this. As black dots begin to cloud my vision, smoke scrapes at my throat and my lungs convulse for air, I know I’m dying not by my body’s natural urge to stupidly keep on resisting the clutches of death, but because the pressure suddenly disappears.  
Everything is spinning and covered in a thick cloud of suffocating smoke. There are hazy figures moving around in fast, chopped movements, like a filmstrip has been chopped by a small child with scissors. My head is heavy and pulsates, there’s something sticky covering it and all the noise suddenly turns into a mere echo, a dull distant background. As the colours and figures blur together, the feeling that someone’s moving me makes my heavy lids flutter.  
A pair of dazzling blue irises looks at me with a mixture of worry, relief and some proudness before a mask quickly shelters them away and the cool resolve of a familiar face returns. Athos’ lips move, he’s telling me something, but the words never reach me. A veil of blackness is thrown over me and the world disappears.  
It feels like seconds later when I come round, yet the night sky, sprinkled with stars, and the moon’s full body prove me wrong. There’s an obstacle in my line of sight, still blurry but getting clearer, and it takes me a second to realise it’s a hat. At that point, as if something got unleashed and a barrier between myself and the world crumbled, one after another emotions and senses wash over me like tidal waves, making me wince.  
I realise I’m being carried as my body wobbles intact with steps; my throat is sore and aching apart from being dry and groggy from all the smoke; my back feels worryingly numb until sudden sharp whips of pain tear at the skin, making we wince.  
“Aramis!” a male voice, stern yet worried at the same time, calls.  
“She’s coming round, that’s good.” Aramis’ soft murmur reaches me through the thick mist of oblivion.  
In a haze of pain, yet alive, I once again blink my eyes open. With the lead heaviness in my limbs any movement is absurd, so I don’t protest to Athos carrying me.  
“What happened?” my voice is a low whisper, husky and strained.  
“You got hit badly.” Athos replies after a minute of hesitation. “Madame Arlene is safe and the brothel is still in flames.” the lack of any emotion in his words startles me, as such events as tonight’s must have left some imprint even on a man like him.  
“And the bad guys?”  
A smirk appears on Athos’ face, making him acquire a whole new exterior – the guarded Musketeer, the leader and protector steps aside to make place for the kind soul, a man with a sense of humour and duty, unbound by other’s opinions. ‘He’s handsome in this light…’ my sluggish brain cannot finish the thought and it floats away into oblivion.  
“The bad guys are dealt with, thanks to you.” there’s a tingle of admiration is his voice and despite my fatigue, I don’t miss the occasion to tease him.  
“Is that a praise I hear?”  
The smirk twitches, threating to turn into a full-blown smile.  
“What if it was?”  
“You don’t strike me as a man who’ll just throw praise left and right.”  
“Well, in the few hours you’ve came to know me, Mademoiselle, you have built quite an accurate impression of me.” he’s teasing me on purpose, probably to keep me conscious.  
“I’m just really perceptive, that’s all.” the words die out like a soft murmur against his shoulder, as sleep tugs at me.  
Shuffling myself closer to him by instinct, seeking his body’s warmth and protection, I unconsciously burry my face in the crook of his neck and inhale his scent – earthy, of leather and soil, yet with the hint of something minty. The sigh of relief hums in my chest as my eyelids drift close and a sense of tranquillity washes over me.  
The stars above glimmer like the flick of a candle, then they smudge and spin, until eventually only deep and consistent darkness is all that’s left. As quick as my senses sprung to alertness, they die out, blown like the flame of a candle.


	2. Earn your lot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like the new chapter! Feel free to leave a comment saying what you think!

Woken up by loud racket close by, a cacophony of voices and words with incoherent meaning, my tired and still rather shaken mind comes round. The rays of the sun are filling the room with soft light, yet the long shadows I glimpse from under my eyelashes speak of a late afternoon rather than the usual early morning. Groaning at the obscurity in my sleeping schedule I begin to turn to my side when pinching pain makes me hiss and stiffen. Immediately memories from last night come flooding back, images of distorted male faces, horrifying female giggles, a mother’s weeping, a mountain of a man’s gurgle as blood pours from his cut throat. Those and many more memories quickly sprint before my eyes and the dread that grasps at my chest makes me nauseous. ‘I killed a man last night. A few even! I took their lives deliberately and intentionally!’ the tightness just worsens and soon air no longer reaches my lungs. Panic. I’m being thrown over by a severe panic attack that sends all my senses into overload, thus tiring and confusing my brain. The worst part is that the knowledge of what’s happening to me in no way helps me battle it.   
A voice, a female scream, reaches my muffled ears, snapping me out of my stupor. My eyes snap open and my body immediately mobilises all its remaining strength in favour of standing up. Yet the action itself, apart from making my head spin and the nausea to worsen, also ushers forward the pain in my back. A wheezed-outcry echoes in the room before it dies out, as fast as the scream. ‘It fucking burns!!!’ And true, it feels as if there’s a fire burning along my spine, its tongues marrying the skin in blisters. A silent scream gets stuck in my throat as once again I try to stand up; a more solid one cuts at the silence and that’s the last push my feministic side needs. The nudge brings a boost of power and I stand from my bed, grab a dagger from my desk and with wobbly feet yet steady and fast steps exit the room. The passing of the stairs almost breaks my neck, but somehow instead of spinning like a sack of potatoes all the way down, I reach the platform intact.   
Yells, harsh and male, come from the kitchen area, indicating trouble by their aggressive undertone. Constance’s voice, shaking yet strict appears, yet it gets silenced by what can only be a slap. Without a second thought, which might have been a good idea given my state, I barge into the kitchen and grab the nearest pan with my free hand. The men are two, and the one closest to me, obviously caught off guard by the appearance of yet another female, doesn’t react fast enough and ends up in a heap on the floor, unconscious.  
“Crazy wench!” his accomplice, a man with a strange helmet and a red cape snarls and charges my way, sword drawn out and ready to strike.  
“I’d advise you to lower your weapon and back away.” the voice that comes from behind my back is ice cold, commanding and leaving no place for retaliation, yet deceptively calm at the same time.   
“You heard ‘im.” Porthos’ gruff baritone follows and successfully conveys his obvious displeasure with the whole situation, quickly followed by the characteristic click of a pistol.  
The man, obviously realising he is outnumbered, obeys the order but not without giving Athos a look of pure hatred and despise. The dagger in my hand suddenly becomes heavier and the ground beneath my bare feet – unsteady. The signs of the soon to be collapse are evident so I quickly move to the closest object I can use for support.   
“Oh my God, Val, are you okay?” in an instant Constance, that gentle soul, is by my side, her face a picture of worry.  
All I can give her is a weak smile – I feel beyond drained, my feet are unsteady and sudden hot waves wash over me. Fatigue or overstrain is not a rarity in my life, filled with constant rushing, deadlines to be followed and long sleepless nights bend over my laptop. Yet now, in this ancient world, all this makes me feel pathetically disposable, a burden someone has to look after. Any further thoughts are chased away by a mutual gasp as my body collapses way too suddenly. By some luck, or foreseeing this, Athos’ hands wrap around my middle and he successfully steadies me against his chest.   
“I’m okay.” my voice is a low hoarse meek that probably no one heard.  
“No, you’re not.” irritation is evident in the male’s low murmur, yet laced with worry at the same time.   
Once again the world drowns in darkness, with the scent of earth and leather mixing.

/***/

A bucket of ice-cold water. That’s what wakes me up God knows how many hours after the kitchen accident. At first I think it’s a dream, then the horrifying though that I’m drowning comes, immediately followed by the realisation that I’m rather brought back to the present exceptionally harsh.  
“Good heavens! You frightened me!” the exclamation makes me snort and then groan as my whole body feels stiff.  
“Constance you dumped a bucket of water on my head. Please allow me to be the upset one here.” my groggy voice sounds unfamiliar even to my own ears.  
Blinking my eyes open and finally looking around, I notice that there’s still light bathing the room in its soft glow. ‘It can’t be that long then…’   
“Well, sorry, but you were speaking things and I got worried!” her drawl, suddenly reminding me of the one of the rednecks in movies elicits a small laugh before her words sink in.  
Looking at my hostess, I notice the distress written all over her beautiful face – her eyebrows are knitted in concern, her lips are sealed tightly and her usually witty and gay eyes are now clouded with what can only be fear of upcoming evil, and there are dark circles under them, betraying exhaustion and sleepless nights. Even her clothes, always neat and clean, now look like she’s been wearing them nonstop for a few days. Her dark curls, so unlike my long straight auburn tassels, appear more unruly than usual, less combed and messier. ‘She looks like a walking zombie.’  
“What do you mean? How long have I been sleeping?” Rising up on my elbows, with a sense of delight I note no pain from my back.  
“You’ve been sleeping for two days now! I got worried!” sitting on the edge of my bed and trying to stay away from the wet blotches, Constance looks at me with her big eyes and I swear there’s not mere concern in them, but straight out of the book horror.  
“What!?” the shriek comes out like the dying squeak of an animal. “Why didn’t someone wake me up?”  
“I tried but you wouldn’t bulge. Aramis came to check on you and he said it’s normal for your state.”  
“My state?”  
“Posttraumatic stress, I believe he said.”  
The term is painfully familiar, yet I never expected to hear it in the 17th century. Then again I wasn’t half as good in History back in my school days, so what knowledge do I actually have of this period? Either way, Aramis deserves a round of applause, as he’s a Musketeer before everything else, yet diagnosed me so correctly. Having seen first-hand what unfolds with patients in such state, I know it’s a matter of time and will for me to recover. ‘As long as I don’t buckle in and fall into despair, all will be fine.’  
“That’ll pass.” I wave my hand, neither worried, nor amazed as after that night of terror it was expected. “You mentioned talking?”  
“Yes.” nodding her head, I notice how something in her eyes changes; the worry makes place for wonder. “You mumbled words… but they were in a different language, I believe. ”  
Frowning at that, my gaze travels out of the window and for a second I space out; wracking my brain for any dreams I might have had while sleeping. In the end I’m left empty handed as to what words I have spoken. One’s for sure – it’s my mother tongue I’ve turned to in this hour of distress, as after all those years of being a foreigner and dedicating every free minute to refining my skills in other languages, my native one will always have the strongest hold.  
“I cannot recall dreaming something, and I never talk in my sleep.”  
A calm silence falls between us, as I try to shake off the feeling of homesickness – everything’s having a great toll on me at present, and my current historically inaccurate and law-defining situation is eating the biggest piece of the pie of my sanity.   
“I’d like to go and bath. Would you care to join me?” the sudden desire to go to the local bathing house and scrub my skin until it reddens is soothing, as I can finally look forward to something.  
“Uhm, sure. Just let me tell D’Artagnan and fix you something to eat.”  
Not waiting my reply, she flees the room, but not without flashing me one of her famous smiles. It’s inevitable not to grin in response, even though she doesn’t see. ‘Such an angel she is! That world would have corrupted and destroyed her… She’s better off here.’ the sad truth in that statement clashes with my sense of belonging, as that world is my world; a place where men still torment women, but not so obviously, where nice creatures like her get squashed by those who see profit or are so suffocated by their own malice that they need an outlet, someone else’s suffering, to feel ‘normal’ again.   
“Yes, Constance is not meant for that world.” saying the words out-loud gives them a body, more truth, and a new meaning.  
That world is no longer a place I yearn to return to. It always felt foreign, like it was drinking me dry, stealing my personality and spirit. Yet here, this time and location, is also not my home, but a hideout; a place I got thrown into in some strange, unimaginable and unexplainable way. ‘I don’t belong in either worlds. How ironic…. and melodramatic.’ scoffing at my own attempts to dampen my mood, enough poured water for one day thank you very much, I throw aside the blanket and cautiously stand up. There’s still a slight nudging pain in my lower back, yet it’s bearable, so I proceed to dry myself and then throw some clothes on. When ready I go downstairs, my steps as soundless as usual, and enter the kitchen with the clear consciousness of not intruding. That’s until I notice D’Artagnan kissing passionately Constance against the table. Dumbstruck for a whole minute, and probably gaping, I’m about to turn around and leave, when the pair notices me and jumps away from each other, as if they may burn themselves.  
“Mademoiselle Bellanger! What you saw…” begins the young Musketeer yet the words stay stuck in his throat as he watches me with wide eyes.  
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I saw absolutely nothing going on in here.” the message is clear – if they don’t bring it up, I won’t for sure.  
Thanking me silently, and throwing a sideway glance at Constance, the lad scurries away, claiming he has work to do. Once away from earshot I glance at my friend, my very naughty as it appears friend, and smirk. Colour rises to her cheeks, making them acquire a nice rosy tint.   
“God, you surely think the worst of me now.” ashamed and utterly devastated that I caught her making out with the man she loves, I can’t help but chuckle and go to the food she had prepared for me.  
“I may be coming from another time Constance but I’m neither blind, nor a fool.” stating that before biting into the pancake, I hum with delight at the sweetness of the honey. “And I don’t think the worst of you, don’t worry.” I add after swallowing the heavenly food.  
“How can you be so forgiving and understanding?” shocked and still worried, she busies herself in washing the dishes, distressed and unwilling to meet my eyes.  
“I can hardly be considered forgiving, as I’m unfortunately the most rancorous person you can meet in your life!” my laugh and composure somehow seem to make her feel even more uneasy. “Come sit with me, so that I can explain it to you.”  
Not completely sure, or willing for that matter, she comes near and pulls the chair next to mine. It’s evident by her sunken demeanour that she’s expecting if not some serious lecture on manners and faithfulness, then a nice scorn.   
“I’m not amazed for two reasons. One, a blind man could have seen there’s something sparkling between you and D’Artagnan, as he was making no attempt to hide his feelings. And two, and most important in this case, is that I understand and am used to it.”  
Wide eyes, pursued lips, face as white as a sheet, fluttering eyelashes and for sure a silent scream muffled in the back of her throat – that’s how Constance looks at me once I stop speaking in order to take another bite of my breakfast. Silence prolongs for as long as I chew, and once having swallowed, her mouth begins to work overtime.  
“What do you mean?! Are you serious?! How can men accept such things!” many more exclamations stay unintelligible as words mash together.  
“Constance.” pinning her with my gaze, God bless my eyes, I successfully silence her. “Now breathe and calm down.”  
Doing as asked, the woman suddenly blushes a violent shade of red, making me almost choke on my drink.  
“Woman, calm the hell down! I ain’t going to preach ‘ya on faithfulness or go and tell the church, or your husband for that matter! Now drink a glass of wine and settle your horses.”   
It’s unusual for me to abut to such language, yet the situation reminds me so much of home that my speech alters by itself. Realising that she probably has a hard time understanding it, mostly due to the fact that I said it in English rather than in French, I sigh and repeat it, this time with better wording.  
“You married not out of love, but exigency, I get that. I know you respect Monsieur Bonacieux, but be fair with yourself Constance, you do not love him. At least not in the way a woman loves her husband.”  
Here she nods, her head lowered in what can only be shame.  
“Your love for D’Artagnan , as forbidden as it is, is pure. That much I’m certain of. I’d never revile you for following your heart’s desires, nor will I comment on it in any way. Only this once, as it’s a necessity, will I tell you that I’m okay with it – not because I prefer him over your husband, but because he makes you happy.” Here her beautiful eyes look at me as if I’m holding the key to her heart. “Unless requested by you, I won’t bring up this subject and will stick to what I said – I didn’t see anything. But if you ever need someone to speak to, whatever the occasion, I want you to know that’ I’m here.” smiling as tears brim her eyes, I nudge the glass of wine her way and watch as she drains it in a single gulp.  
“You cannot imagine how glad I am you know and won’t scorn me. I wanted to tell you, I did!, but I was afraid you’d look badly at me for such a violation of my vows.”  
“Vows you gave out of necessity rather than love, Constance. Remember – I’m always rooting for love over order.” winking conspiratorially at her, the conversation comes to an abrupt end as the front door opens and her husband comes in.  
I finish my food calmly, answering the few polite questions Monsieur Bonacieux asks out of courtesy, before ushering Constance out of the house and down to the bathhouse. 

***

On our way back, freshly washed and with braided hair, clinging to each other like schoolgirls and whispering about her newfound love and how I’d gladly cover for her whenever she wishes, suddenly we come to a stop. Looking at what’s before us that made her halt so abruptly, I wonder whether to smirk or laugh out loud. The garrison, a building I only saw from afar, is quite imposing with its fortress-like build, stone walls and various men clad in leather and blue coats walking around, their swords clasped around their belts and their hats bouncing as they go. The sun’s already setting and it’s nearing dinner time, so some of them are seated down on the tables, eating and chatting, while others are duelling, using the more acceptable temperatures to build up on their skills. Stealing a glance at my companion, I notice her gaze is transfixed in a certain direction, almost zeroing completely on it. Following her line of sight, this time I cannot help the laugh that erupts from me; she’s looking at a table near the staircase, where D’Artagnan and his friends are currently seated, and talk quite passionately about something.  
“Don’t mock me!” it’s a friendly scold, yet the small smile and the blush that appear on her face make my mood remain as good as ever.  
“C’mon!” suddenly dragging her towards the huge open gates of the garrison, a meek erupts from her as I head towards a space filled with men, who will definitely notice out invasion of their territory.  
“We cannot!” it’s a desperate attempt to change my mind, as she comes to the realisation that despite getting out of bed only a few hours ago, I still possess more physical strength then her.  
With a basket in my left hand, filled with apples we just picked from someone’s garden, which she scolded me about, I have to use my other one, still laced with hers, to drag her forward.  
“We have no doings there!” panic is now taking root in her eyes, yet the excitement at the possible encounter with a certain man is stronger.  
“Don’t be a fool! I’m going there to ask about the wellbeing of Madame Arlene, not to chit-chat or something as inappropriate as that.”  
Knowing that a word such as ‘inappropriate’ pretty much holds no significance in my dictionary, as that world has put a whole new meaning to it, Constance knows I’m just making a decent cover behind which we can hide our arrival. With a sigh of resignation, as it’ll be a waste of time to try and persuade me to continue on our way, she simply shakes her head, faking grumpy, and allows me to stir her towards the widely open doors of the garrison.  
Truth be told, I actually really want to know what happened with the pregnant woman I almost died saving, as well as what were two Red Guards (I later recognised them by the idiotic helmets and the red capes) doing in Constance’s kitchen, obviously molesting her. ‘And seeing a certain blue-eyed sullen male is just a bonus, I guess.’ my mental remark is indicative of how much I value myself; self-irony is the greatest form of flattery.  
Barely having crossed the threshold and all eyes are on us, including those of the men we are headed towards. The confusion at our arrival quickly makes place to a friendly and polite nods, some – D’Artagnan’s , more gallant than others. Pretending not to notice the way he and my companion literally can’t tear their eyes away from one another, and surprisingly noting the knowing smirks of the other three Musketeers, I make a clumsy curtsey and greet them.  
“What brings you here?” easy to start and lead a conversation, it’s almost Aramis’ second nature to break the silence first. “Not that you two lovely ladies’ beauty is not enough to better our day.”  
“We were passing by and I recalled having a few questions that needed answering.”  
“Aww… here we thought you missed us.” Porthos, always the tease and jollier, chirps in after a drink of his tankard.  
“Oh, but I did in every waking hour I had today.” mimicking his tone, I throw a glance at Constance, who is still giving D’Artagnan the dove-eye.  
“Do you mind if we join you for a second?” it’s out of my place to say such a thing as women in this time do not speak in such a free manner, yet I do none the less, eliciting a reaction from my friend immediately.  
“Val!” she seems genius distressed and I can’t help but laugh.  
“What? I asked politely.”   
“It’s not right.” she looks almost ashamed and for a second a silence follows.  
Then Porthos’ and my own laugher mix, followed by D’Artagnan’s and Aramis’ chuckle.   
“Of course you can share our table.” quickly making some space, Aramis smartly puts us between Athos, who’s pretty much hidden under his hat, and himself, with the Gascon and Porthos across of us.  
“How very subtle of you.” I whisper as I take my sit and place the basket next to me on the bench.  
“At your service.” the movement with the hand, as if lowering an invisible hat, makes me chuckle.  
Some chatter follows, as questions regarding my health flow from almost all directions, save Athos’ as he appears grumpier than usual, and then more general topics. Believing I’ve been polite and aloof for long enough, my mind sets to find out what’s been happening while I was in Dreamland.   
“I hope I’m not crossing a line-” I begin but Constance low whisper cuts me off.  
“Too late for that one.”  
Ignoring the remark, I continue.  
“But I’d like to know what happened with Madame Arlene?”  
“She’s fine.” Porthos’ reluctant answer makes me raise an eyebrow.  
“You are being a miser with words and information today, Monsieur Porthos. That’s very unlike you.” his eyes twinkle and he smirks, yet refrains from any further clarification by lifting his tankard to his lips.  
“That’s because we are not allowed to speak of it.” Athos’ voice carries that note of irritation, as if I had to know on my own that such information is classified.  
“Under such circumstances, then it’s sufficient enough for me to know she’s not hurt.”   
“Is something else of interest to Mademoiselle?” once again the cold-laced voice of the Musketeer makes something in me shudder.   
‘Is he really mocking me??’ Looking at him, one eyebrow raised at his bad (even by my low standards) manners, I only see the lower part of his face. His jaw is clenched and his lips are tightly pressed together, as if irritation cannot even begin to describe his state.   
“There is actually, so kind of you to remind me.” my own voice is now void of its previous jolliness and warmth. “I want to know what were those Red Guards doing in Madame Bonacieux’ house.”  
Yet once again silence befalls us. The uneasy movement of my friend next to me and the way she looks at her hands in her lap alarms me. When no one breaks the tension for over a minute, I begin to get angry.  
“Is this classified information as well?” my voice betrays how unsettled I am at their secrecy, and most importantly – angry.  
“Not as classified as it is of no significance to you at present.” Aramis, that silver tongue, tries to woo me and sooth the storm that they can sense is now brooding over their heads.  
“Excuse me if I have gotten this wrong, but are you implying that breaking into people’s houses, threatening and molesting them, is not important? Should someone have gotten killed for it to be deemed worthy of attention?”   
I’m getting slightly ahead of myself, yet the act of assault is still rather fresh in my mind and brings forward the reminder that wasn’t it for Athos’ timely intervention, I’d been dead now. All four of them look everywhere but me, obviously uncomfortable with my tone and the way I don’t just let it drop but even dare them.  
As silence prolongs and becomes unbearably tense, I think of leaving, when Athos’ voice stops me.  
“It was an assault, for that you are right. But it was not on Madame Bonacieux’ life.”   
“Athos!” the warning in Porthos’ voice makes something in me stand on edge.  
“Then for who was it meant?”   
For a first time since we came he lifts his head, the hat no longer hiding his piercing blue eyes, and looks at me with a cold calculating stare. Under such close observation I feel like he’s trying to dig out all my secrets, deepest desires, worst fears, and generally read me like an open book. Unease would have appeared any second, wasn’t it for his voice that put an abrupt stop to that emotion.  
“You.”  
They say that curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back. With my curiosity on that matter sated, there’s no satisfaction to revive me. It’s as if something in me halts at his words. Then it does a double take, as if I might have heard wrong before changing the gear and going in full-blown rage. Yet as before, it simply simmers just below the surface of my composure, enough to be sensed but not seen or unleashed. At least that’s what I think up until this very moment.  
“Val, please breathe!” Constance’s whisper, laced with worry, and the way she squeezes my shoulder all speak of my mask having crumbled down for a moment.  
Closing my eyes and pushing down the rage in favour of sanity and sense, when I once again lift my lids, I see all the concerned faces around me.  
“Why?” realising I speak in no one in particular, my head snaps in Athos’ direction as he appears to be the only one who dares speak. “Why me?”  
For a second he stays motionless, studying my face and searching for any trace of all this being a show, or falsehood, or God knows what. ‘This man is so doubtful and untrusting!’   
“We were hoping you’d tell us.” he admits and takes a sip of his tankard.  
“Me? I have no damn idea why that lunatic send his hounds after me!” blowing my top in such a rash manner earns me a few looks, and a nudge from Constance. “What I meant to say is that I have no clue what his eminence may want with me.”  
“Have you done or said something to anyone? Any offensive remarks? Any challenging of Guards?” even Porthos’ stare now looks calculating, as if he’s searching for any clue, something I may hide.  
‘That’s damn offensive!’ I mentally scream, but on the outside only raise my eyebrow at him, making a guilty look cross his face.  
“No, I have not. I arrived a month ago, for goodness’ sake! I didn’t have the time to properly anger someone!”  
“That’s plenty of time to anger all the wrong people, Mademoiselle.” Aramis seems unmoved by all this, and in a way I envy him; his composure proves to be tougher than mine.  
“Yet I haven’t!” realising that I sound like a guilty convict defending herself, the thought that they’re actually testing me, questioning and prying, suddenly hits me like a train.  
The blood that drained from my face a few seconds ago now rushes back in, making my cheeks flare for sure, as anger once again surfaces, this time aimed at them and their insolence.  
“Are you suspecting I have done this intentionally?! With what purpose!?”   
They appear to be at a dead end, obviously not having thought of it this far. My moment of victory is short, though, as once again Athos speaks, his voice now a steel blade across my skin.  
“If we knew the purpose, we’d have taken precautions by now.” the accusation in his voice is plain obvious and beside me Constance gasps.  
“With what right or evidence are you accusing me of such a thing!?” the hiss is dangerously low, reminding a snake’s tell-tale signal for trouble: back down or I’ll bite you!  
Leaning over the table as I say that, Athos sees the need to return the favour by intimidating me in return, so he also leans forward, his elbows resting on the wood.  
“With the right of a man who follows the laws, Mademoiselle. I’m not straightaway accusing you, but your reaction speaks of something you are hiding.”  
If he had slapped me, I’d have felt less hurt. Now, too infuriated to put a filter on my mouth, or care for that manner, I lean in even more, melting the space between us until there’re only a few inches doing our lips apart.  
“Everyone has skeletons in their closets, Monsieur. Even a man of the law like yourself. Next time you confront me with such accusation, I suggest you have one hell of a proof to back it up with.” the whispered words are low and warning as not even for a second do I break eye contact.   
“I think we discussed this enough.” Aramis intervenes, obviously worried about what may happen if I suddenly jump at his friend, or the other way around.  
Pulling away sharply and standing up, I grab my basket and indicate for Constance to get up. Quickly, without questions or resistance, she picks up her skirts and walks ahead.  
“You are right, Monsieur Aramis. We discussed enough.” throwing a last cold glare at Athos, who returns it just as vehemently, I bid my goodbye as etiquette requires and turn around. It takes all my self-discipline not to run away from here like a little child.

***

On the way back to the house there is an eerie silence heaving between myself and Constance, as my demeanour, not so long ago cheerful and exhilarated, not has dampen considerably, reaching a state of blind rage. The second we get into the house I excuse myself and go to my room, determined to give my mind some time to cool off and compose.  
By the time the last rays of the sun melt away and a nice evening briskness falls over Paris, I feel less willing to scream, and more disappointed and distressed, as well as a slight bit sad. It’s foolish to believe that after a few-days long acquaintance the Musketeers will come to trust me (and idiotically I even thought of them as friends) yet the dull ache inside of me feels like acid, burning its way around. So I spend over two hours in brainstorming, thinking thorough and revising all the collisions I have had with men that may have been Red Guards, as for once I’m sure I have never encountered the Cardinal himself. Yet no matter how many times I return to the day before with the men in the kitchen, the drawn swords, and picture their faces no memory of ever having seen them flashes back. Nothing. ‘Then what’s going on around here? Who has incited the Cardinal’s hounds?’ It’s a waste of time to smack my head against the wall, so eventually I get out of bed, still in my dress from the day, and walk out of my room. The first floor is bathed in darkness, yet by now my memory of the house is explicit enough, so there’s no chance of tripping in something. What I didn’t expect is to actually find someone in the kitchen, sneaking through the back door. Noticing him a second too late, a tall male figure with a mantle flapping behind his back, I don’t manage to duck in time as he also spots me. In an instant he shuffles for something in his clothes and by instinct I throw myself on the ground, seconds before a pistol fires and shatters a vase behind me. The attacker is fast, yet I’m wittier, so when he comes at my right, I throw myself at him and successfully tumble him down. A startled cry emits from his lips as we wrestle on the floor, yet his greater physical strength quickly overpowers mine. Seeing his upcoming victory, the fool doesn’t even begin to grasp my plan; my intention isn’t to take him out, but to hold him down. Knowing that D’Artagnan sleeps in the room above, and all this racket has surely woken him up, I can’t fight a victorious grin at the sound of a door being thrown open. The thudding of fast footsteps alarms my opponent, yet I manage to keep him occupied by swiping my foot across his, knocking him down the second he stands up. Vengeance is served in the form of a hit that grazes my jaw, and as it appears successfully cutting my lower lip as the metallic taste of blood quickly fills my mouth.  
“What’s going on here!?” Constance appears to have risen as well and left the safety of her room.  
A moment of stillness follows. The air becomes dense and heavy, the acid smell of gunpowder now excessively strong all of a sudden, accompanied by something else, something more human-related. Sniffing the air like a dog, I catch a trace of the attacker’s scent as it’s quite a prominent one, and one that makes me wanna throw up – ripe pinecone and dirt. Storing this information for the upcoming hours of reflexion I move out of the way as the invader has drawn his sword. I see the steel reflecting the dim light of the candle nearby; he obviously intends to finish his business with me. What stops him is the sudden appearance of D’Artagnan, sword in hand, and a vehement look in his dark eyes. The skirmish between the men is short, as the older one uses a dirty trick by throwing flour in the Musketeer’s face, and successfully escapes.  
By my side Constance, who thoughtfully brought the candle, shakes like a leaf, her face chalky and her breathing ragged. Throwing a hand over her shoulder and pulling her closer to me, I try to sooth her by gently drawing circles on her back.  
“Dammit!” the Gascon curses and heads towards the door with the intention to peruse whoever tried to assassinate me.  
“D’Artagnan! Leave him!” I quickly speak, my voice authoritative, yet tired. “It doesn’t matter. I saw his face.”  
Pacing back and forth like a lion kept in a cage he eyes us more than once, weighting something in his mind. At this point Monsieur Bonacieux who obviously waited for the racket to calm down, pokes his head from over the railway, his dishevelled hair representing a funny birds’ nest.  
“Is it all safe?” rolling my eyes at the fright in his voice, I still give an affirmative answer and nudge Constance to return to her room.  
“But all this mess…” she looks at the kitchen’s floor with apprehension and distress; not so much due to the disturbance of order itself, but of what unfolded and what might have happened, wasn’t is for D’Artagnan being around.  
Suddenly her almond-shaped eyes look up at me, the deepness in them filled with worry and fear.  
“It’s all alright, Constance. Go rest. I’ll take care of it.” ushering her away, I plaster a fake, yet reassuring smile on my face.  
Once away and free of the praying eyes of her lovely husband, I turn to D’Artagnan, who guiltily looks at his feet before stealing a glance at me.  
“Do you still assume I have something to do with all of this, Monsieur?” Despite my best attempts there’s a slight scold in my voice as I bend over and pull a chair back up.  
“In my defence I didn’t believe you truly guilty, Mademoiselle. Yet, I apologise none the less for everything that was said to you.”   
Mimicking my actions, he begins to pick up tumbled over chairs and collects the broken pieces of a cookie jar that got crushed in the affray.   
“And yet your friend appeared so sure in his accusation…”   
“Athos is… well, he just doesn’t trust people that easily. And in some way, forgive me for saying this, you always manage to anger him, so he has a special attitude towards you.”  
At this he peeks from under his eyelashes at me, looking for reaction. The one he receives is a wide-eyed, pale-faced gape, quickly moulding into an infuriated frown.  
“Either ways, I’m certain that this is not a matter you should be discussing with me.”  
“You are very right. I’ll leave it to you to smack some sense into his head.” with that I head for the broom and begin to swipe the floor.  
“If I may say that you have a very… unique way of speaking.” cautiously approaching a topic that I’m unwilling to discuss at this precise moment, I cut off any further prying as politely as humanly possible in a moment such as this.  
“That I have, yet further asking will be fruitless as that’s not a topic I’d discuss with everyone.”  
Okay, maybe politeness swept passed me, yet it could have been a lot worse; most of the time I snap quite badly as such tactless approaching of personal topics, yet once again blaming it to the time these people live in, I sigh and continue cleaning the floor. A bird in the distance gives a loud, prominent cry that the wind carries around before it dies out, sucked away by the vast empty streets of Paris.

/***/

The sweet scent of honey waffles and tea seeps under the threshold of the door and reaches my still snoozing body. Having little to no sleep last night, and barely dozing off in the early hours of the morning, my head is now as heavy as lead, with an awful headache beginning to take root. Moaning and rubbing the sleep away from my eyes, an unintended swipe of my clumsy hand over my mouth reminds me that there’s a cut there. After thoughtfully washing my face I check the inflicted damage in a small mirror - my bottom lip is cut and currently slightly swollen but it will heal, yet the probability of yet another scar is pretty damn high. On the other hand, compared to the purple-blue bruise branding my jaw, it’s a nick that I can manage with. The injured spot is swollen as well, very sensitive to touch and with its vivid colouration will definitely attract all the unnecessary attention.  
It’s futile to try and cover any of it with something as the make-up I have with me, the one that got transported alongside all the 21st century things in my bag, including a cell phone, won’t do any good. So quickly braiding my long hair into a loose fishtail and checking the ties of my boots, I exit the room and quickly go downstairs. At the threshold of the kitchen, from where the delicious smell comes I stop dead. It appears that lately wanting to eat in the designed for that space is a mission impossible, as now the seats are occupied by the Musketeers who appear to be discussing something quite vehemently.   
“Val! What’s happened with your face?!”   
On some days I believe Constance is purely looking for a way to fuss over me – be it a split lip or a headache, she’ll have me grounded and in bed for as long as it takes for my body to recover.   
“Our midnight guest was so kind as to leave a reminder of himself behind. Not that I’ll be forgetting that any time soon.” mumbling the last part under my breath, I nod a greeting at the men and head towards where the waffles are positioned.  
“What are the male clothes for?” D’Artagnan’s the one to ask the question everybody’s thinking.  
“I’m going hunting.” taking a bite from the still warm deliciousness, I feel its puffy texture collapse in a glitter of sweetness and pleasure; a moan rumbles in my throat. “Constance, your cooking is heavenly!”  
“What do you mean hunting?” the praise did nothing to simmer down her suspiciousness.  
Pinning me with her eyes, I know there’s no walking past this one. So instead I decide to shrug nonchalantly, finish the waffle and take a sip of the tea. They all patiently wait for my answer.  
“I’m tired of being a target for a bunch of idiots who want to play assassins. It’s time to turn the table and show them just how nice it is to be chased.” in a single gulp I finish the cup and leave it in the sink.  
“You are doing no such thing.” surprisingly Porthos is the one to oppose first.  
“Stay and watch.” daring him with a smirk that holds more warning than joyfulness, I head for the door, seeing no point in continuing the conversation.  
A hand grasping me by the elbow is what stops me from exiting the house. Throwing a threatening look over my shoulder, for a second I’m startled to see Athos there, his firm grip not bulging even for a second.  
“It’s unwise to do such things on your own, unprotected.” the calmness in his voice stirs something in me as the pain from his words yesterday is still fresh in my mind.  
Harshly breaking away from his grasp, I don’t even bother to face him but head out, throwing over my shoulder as I go:  
“Don’t pretend you care for my wellbeing, Monsieur. It’s your precious Law I’m overstepping.”  
The look on his face might have been priceless, but I didn’t dare turn around and check as my stride may falter under his penetrating blue eyes. ‘What’s that man’s problem?! And why is he affecting me?’ Furious at how once again someone’s at the verge of getting under my skin, a Musketeer nonetheless!, I stamp my feet as I go, the steps’ thudding muffling the low curses that slip past my lips.


	3. Teach me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you that are still mildly interested - here's another chapter, a long one as an excuse for the delay. I hope you enjoy it and feel free to leave a comment.

It was an exceptionally bad idea that will stay written in history as the stupidest, most reckless and life-endangering thing anyone has ever done. Plus, a complete failure, but that’s of no importance at this current moment. As my body shifts left and right with the movement of the horse underneath me, its rock-hard muscles carrying the weight of two as if it’s nothing, I don’t know whether to be filled with shame or blind rage. The ‘hunt’ was as futile as I had originally expected – not a single trace of the man I glimpsed at in the kitchen could be found throughout the better part of the city. My detective skills, a firm foundation erected by the Sherlock Holmes stories I read as a child, lead me to an abandoned house, with rats as big as my hand and a horrendous stench of decomposing flesh. Up to that point I believed myself lost beyond compare, yet shame was barely taking root within my body. When I came across Athos a few streets down and didn’t manage to hide from his prying eyes in time, the seed of humiliation turned into a full-blown tree of ignominy. Being the gentleman he is, a proposition to take me back home and put an end to this madness was ushered. If I hadn’t been lost beyond the point of orientation, I’d have declined with a wave of my hand, aching feet be damned. Yet I was utterly, irrevocably lost in one of the scariest parts of Paris, so through gritted teeth I accepted.  
Now, with my back pressed firmly against his chest and moving in sync with him under the rhythmic waddle of his black horse, I feel perplexed – the fury is postponed if not forgotten, the shame is fresh but that too will pass, so why am I feeling like I’m being kicked in the gut? ‘Because he thinks I’m capable of actually inflicting physical damage on another human being.’ Shushing my pride, as that insolent creature brought enough storm clouds over my head, I clear my throat.   
“How did you know where to find me?” nonchalant as much as possible, I pretend to study the various building we pass by.  
They vary from huddled huts that barely stand on the ground, their dirty little windows having paper instead of glass protection against the merciless winds that howl down the street in the late night; then amongst them, like colourful patches on a black cloth, there are two-storey, used-to-be houses whose foundations are the only semi-solid thing left, as the rest has either crumbled down long ago or now hangs on a few still holding threads. The scene is deplorable and makes a feeling of sorrow and abandonment crawl down my stomach. ‘These houses will stand here, like a dreadful reminder long after their residence die.’  
“I followed you.” Athos’ voice snaps me out of my dazing.   
“You what!?” shrieking, my elbow collides with his chest as I make an attempt to turn around and glare at him. “And why did you even bother? You knew I’d get lost, didn’t you!?”  
“I did.” admitting it as if it’s obvious he keeps that cool and preserved air around him.  
“You should have left me to wander around. It would have taught me a lesson.” after a few minutes I admit, the adult finally surfacing from whatever hole she had been hiding in today.  
It takes great power from my side to acknowledge he is right and I – wrong; even if only to myself. Yet my pride, as flamboyant as it is, still manage to shuffle to the side when necessary and make place to rational sense. The sun’s soft rays blind me for a second and I raise my hand to shield my eyes. People pass us by as we go, barely throwing a curios glance under the brims of their hats.  
“If a lesson must be learned, that’s not the way.” the instructive tone is nowhere to be found, but rather his voice holds that reconciliation of a man who has to put up with the constant babble of a woman.  
“Sorry, am I annoying you with my talking?” snapping usually is not a good move, especially when he can easily toss me off the horse and trot away.  
To my greatest amazement, I catch a small movement on his lips; it’s a fleeting phenomenon but I manage to observe it. The ends of his lips twitch upwards and a beginning of what can only be a self-assured smirk flashes for a second, making small dimples appear on one side of his face. As if just now, due to the close proximity and the lack of any side manners to distract me, I notice just how handsome he is in his own melancholic, withdrawn way. The barely maintained beard nicely frames his face, softening the hard lines of his jaw; his straight nose, slightly hoity as an outward sign of aristocracy; then his mesmerising blue eyes that have that illuminating fire in them, the spark of life, wit and perceptiveness, keen observation skills and humour. And under all that, under the finely put together mask, there’s the hurt and disappointment of a man, whose soul got ripped straight out of his unsuspecting chest by the gentle, pale hand of a woman. The remains, all that moves his body forwards, are simply scattered pieces, a memory of a time filled with love and happiness, yet long gone. Catching me staring at him, he raises a questioning eyebrow my way, perplexed probably as to why I suddenly show any interest and good manners; my response is in the form of turning around and once again looking ahead. ‘How do you explain a sudden fascination to a man, for whom the female population has fallen into disgrace?’  
“No, Mademoiselle.”  
“Yeah... you drizzle enthusiasm.” the sarcastic remark is rewarded with a scoff.  
“I guess your bad mood is due to my accusations from the previous day?” directly laying the problem on the table is another characteristic of his that leaves a good impression, slightly nagging for sure, as such straightforwardness is always welcomed, but some gallantness before that would have been nice. ‘That’s Aramis’ weapon of choice. This man is more business than pleasure.’  
“Pff!” the sound makes even the horse move its head in a manner of worry, as if asking its rider if the woman tagging along is feeling alright. “I can live without your most sincere apologies!”   
The rest of the ride passes in pregnant silence, through which I realise I’m being a bitch on purpose and that no matter how much I try to run around the problem, if I ever want my mood to better, I’ll have to speak with Athos like an adult instead of a spoiled child. Breathing in deeply and reminding myself that thanks to him I’m still able to intake oxygen, I begin.  
“I’m not always so… turbulent in my emotions.” the whisper is barely audible yet by the shifting of his body behind me, his chest brushing against my back, I know he’s heard me. “I’m rather fair-spoken if people knew how to communicate with me. And yes, I admit, I’m still rather offended after your claim.”  
“I was doing my job.”  
“I know. That doesn’t make it any less… painful.” thankfully with my current positon he cannot see how blood rushes to my face, making it flush in a crimson tint.  
“Then I offer my most sincere apologies… it was never my intention to hurt your feelings and I admit I acted rather harsh…”  
“So let’s wave the white flag and call it a truce?” peeking over my shoulder, I once again manage to catch a glimpse of a ghost of a smile.  
“A truce it shall be.” he nods his head, seemingly content at how things unfolded.  
The streets are getting narrower and more deserted, as it’s nearing time for dinner. Thankfully soon we’ll be at Constance’s house, so I use the opportunity to approach another topic.   
“I’m looking for a teacher who’ll be willing to better my skills with the sword.” throwing that in, I wait for any reaction that he’s listening.   
A low hum vibrates in his chest and my whole body twitches, as if static electricity just zapped through me. Ignoring this abnormality, one of many these days, I continue with a composed voice, as if speaking about the weather.  
“I hoped you could… you know… recommend me someone.”  
“Any preferences?” there’s slight mock in his voice, making me roll my eyes and smirk despite myself. ‘Tango is for two, mon ami.’  
“Yes. He needs to be patient, a good teacher and a decent swordsman. That’s pretty much it.”   
What follows is another scoff, as if what I said offends him. The sun’s already leaning towards the horizon, its light having decreased in strength, yet now painting the sky in various colours. The soft feathery clouds, a few minutes ago white as fluff, now transform into a spectacular palette of soft orange, dull red and some pink. Transfixed at the miraculous change before me, the sharp rearing of the horse and a panicked neigh, followed by Athos’ silent curse, send me slipping out of the saddle and onto the pavement. My knees are the first to collide with the hard stone, and that’s the only thing saving me from both a broken nose and being stepped on. The horse keeps on trashing around despite its’ rider attempts to calm it down. ‘Animals get distressed like this by eminent danger.’ reminding myself what I’ve learned back in my school years I look around the deserted square only to spot five men heading our way, swords drawn.   
“Step back.” the cool resolve and steeliness in Athos’ voice snaps me out of whatever haze I’ve been in; quickly jumping back on my feet and ignoring my now sore kneecaps, I dust off my clothes.  
“That’s five against one. Let me help.”  
“Don’t intervene.”  
Getting off his horse and throwing the rains at me, his opinion regarding the offer is painfully clear – my abilities are not good enough for such a collision. Gritting my teeth against a snarky remark, I tug the frightened creature to the side, all the meanwhile trying to spot a random passer-by who may help. Yet at this hour there’s no one left, and the few that were here a while ago, at the appearance of the questionable characters vanished into thin air. The horse rows at the pavement with its front hooves, irritated and adamant to stay here, yet loyal to its rider.   
“I hope you realise what a stupid mistake you’re about to do.” nothing gives away whether this ambush has any effect on Athos whatsoever; he appears as calm as usual, just slightly irritated. “You’re about to attack a King’s Musketeer.”  
One of the five steps forward, sword in hand, and smiles broadly, revealing a mouth filled with missing teeth. His reply, definitely offensive as I note how Athos’ fists clench next to his body, stays unintelligible to me, as the used dialect isn’t local and the words mash together. ‘What do those baboons want from him?’ frowning and moving even further back towards a tree to which I can tie the horse’s reins, my senses stay alert to any movement that may betray their intentions.   
“Hand over the female and we might let ya leave.” another man speaks, this time with more sense to his words, and saves me all the brainstorming as to what’s going on.  
“You must be fucking kidding me.” muttering under my breath, I quickly find a low branch and tie the bridles to it, hoping that the horse will stay put and not simply run away once things get messy.  
Earlier today, before leaving the house, I put on what Constance regards as my man clothes –breeches made of some soft fabric, a loose shirt which I remodelled to fit my body better and over it a vest that ties at the front like a corset, yet serves mostly as to define my waistline and keep me warm. Considering how the last few days passed in turbulence and battle for my life, I fetched my sword and fastened it around my waist. A set of small throwing daggers that I got specially made in the near-by smithy got tucked into my boots as a plan B. All this has been concealed from view by my woollen mantle that Constance gave me. Now, facing inevitable confrontation and knowing that despite Athos’ excellent abilities with the sword (rumours travel fast around here and so does fame) five against one is a bad bet. Quickly untying my mantle and pretending to ignore what the men are talking about, yet not letting them out of my sight, I toss it over the saddle and one last time gently pat the horse on the neck in an attempt to sooth the poor animal.  
“You may cheer for us, you know.” I whisper as I fondle it across the snout; to which it replies with a snort.  
“Ain’t ya girl worthy of yo’ death, Monsieur?!” the one with the missing teeth gloats, yet the sense in what he says doesn’t reach me. ‘Is that a question? A statement?’ Illiterate beyond any point, I know these men were hired by someone to take me down. The question is by whom?  
“One last time I’d advise you to leave while you still have the chance.” his voice is as cold as a winter storm that’s about to unleash.  
Next thing I know, Athos’ hand is already on the hilt of his sword; the dangerous warning in a barely upholstered weapon should have sent them running for the hills.  
Another lopsided grin follows, showing off too much rotten teeth, before all five of them lung forward simultaneously, eager to get over Athos and snatch me away. In an eye blink the Musketeer’s sword is drawn out and he counters. Their tactic appears to be to surround him and swipe all at once with the hope that at least one will land a lucky blow. Unfortunately for them, there are two things they obviously don’t take into consideration: one, Athos is a Musketeer, thus his abilities with a sword greatly exceed whatever they have taught themselves to do; and two –he’s not alone. As fast and as soundless as possible, despite that no one pays me any attention whatsoever, I sneak behind them. My sword collides just in time with one of the old things these men carry, successfully saving Athos’ head from being chopped off.  
“What didn’t you understand by don’t intervene?” he hisses while successfully pushing away two of the five men.   
The one that’s now facing me goes for a low blow but I step to the side, block and then attack. The steel passes through his chest like paper and once again I’m reminded of the horrifying ability to take life away with impunity. ‘It’s self-defence! Self-defence!’ repeating the same thing as his body falls to the ground with a low thud, yet the nausea that came the first time I killed a man now returns, almost making me bend over.  
“Focus!” Athos shouts gets almost muffled by the clang of steal against steal makes me straighten my shoulders and compose.   
Just like in the brothel the sense of self-preservation is what kicks forward and makes me grip the hilt of the sword for dear life. ‘It’s either me or them. One of us has to die.’ something cold and heavy settles in the pits of my stomach as once again I raise my light-weighted sword and lung forward. It all happens too fast for me to grasp and fuss around – sharp edges fly around trying to cut at my skin, men’s calloused hands stretch my way wanting to grab me, and all I can do is swipe left and right like a butcher and prey I don’t mince Athos by mistake.   
The last man falls to the ground with a loud howl of pain, clutching his side for dear life, and cussing unintelligibly. As if sensing that he’s valuable, the cold-hearted killer in me steps back and lowers the sword, allowing Athos to take initiative from here on. While passing him by, I can feel his eyes on me, yet refuse to provide any acknowledgement whatsoever; I don’t want him to see all the horror and pain swirling painted on my face. There are inner turmoil and the self-hatred that now rage throughout me like a thunderstorm so instead I hurry back to the horse, now visibly calmer, and wash my hands in the nearby fountain.  
The water, crystal clear up until a few moments ago, now gets tinted in a soft pink shade that grows darker the more I scrub at the skin. Stealing a glimpse at my distorted reflexion, what I see is the pale sullen face of a woman, whose regret will be the end of her. ‘I’m a killer. A cold-blooded killer and nothing can change that.’ Time skips past me with unknown pace as my eyes stay glued unseeingly at the water, its soft, almost melodic chatter somehow soothing my strained nerves. Unknowingly I at some point I have completely shut off the outside world, when someone grabs me by the shoulder and makes me jump.  
“Let’s go.” for once Athos’ voice is somehow gentle, sympathetic, as if he sees and understands the turmoil that’s got me paralyzed beyond compare. “Let’s get you home.”  
Somehow the next words get shed from my tightly pressed lips.  
“I don’t have a home.”  
The frightening truth behind that statement makes me shudder and something deep within me, the rooted by birth sense of belonging shakes violently and cracks appear. Then, one by one, pieces begin to chip off and fall into an endless sea of nothingness. 

/***/

It’s been almost a week since the ambush at the square and there’s been no trace from any of the Musketeers, save for D’Artagnan. The deep affection between him and Constance is plain evident in the simplest of gestures; the most innocent words bear the strongest meaning whenever they speak to one another and I can’t help but feel both happy and slightly jealous. Such mutual content, passion and undefiled love are what every human being aims for but few actually reach. Either way, as promised, I help her in any way I can to make those small encounters possible. Her smile and happiness, the cheerful laughter and the giggles are all worth the slowly burning pain of abandonment in my chest. ‘The world does not revolve around you!’ constantly reminding myself that, soon even the small sparks of envy get extinguished. Yet trouble quickly rears my thoughts back into their previous order.   
It’s already noon by the time I return from my ‘job’ at the florists. Today was exceptionally crowded and people were literally elbowing one another to get in and snatch some flower, whatever the kind. When I finally return and take off my mantle I feel beyond drained, yet the sound of voices coming from the kitchen draws my attention away from the comfortable bed upstairs. With silent steps, like a cat nearing on its prey, I come closer and peak behind the corner.  
“Let me guess, Musketeer business again?” leaning against the doorframe, with a smug yet tired smile on my face, I can’t help but chuckle.  
“Indeed, Mademoiselle.” Aramis’ smile is warm and inviting, so I pull a chair and flop down on it.  
“You look shaggy.” Porthos’ keen eyes never skip to notice the minor details; in my case the paleness of my face and the dark circles under my eyes.  
“That’s not a way to address a lady, Monsieur. But as a matter of fact, I do feel rather shaggy. The day was too long.” the good-natured humour in my scold makes the large man laugh, his eyes twinkling.  
Unintentionally my gaze travels around, spotting Athos leaning against the sink in the other end of the room, the brim of his hat hiding his face. As if sensing my eyes on him, he lifts his head and our gazes meet – his usually steely blue irises now hold a different spark in them. Yet before I get ahead of myself and study him further, Constance’s hand on my shoulder gains my attention. She looks rather worried, a dark shadow looming over her and sharpening the outlines of her angelic face. That enough makes all my senses stand on guard.  
“What’s happened?”   
“We found who hired those men to kill you.” Aramis throws the bomb, for once, with almost no compassion; now he appears to be studying my face for any reaction.  
“Tell me who he is and I’ll send him rolling down his grave.” repulsed by death or not, after everything that’s happened, I feel the clawing need within me to seek vengeance.  
“A lil’ bit late for that one.” Porthos’ gruff voice betrays his own discontent.  
Frowning and shaking my head, as if not assimilating the information correctly, my eyes look up at Constance, who appears too quiet and distanced. ‘What are they hiding?’ the possibility that yet again some information is being detained from me for some reason unnerves me and yet again my gaze travels around the room, this time talking in minor details that I initially missed. Like the way Porthos’ free-spirited attitude is betrayed by the stiffness of his shoulders. How Aramis appears to be facing an inner conflict as his eyes dart around, as if in search for something. How D’Artagnan throws glances filled with regret at me and Constance. And how Athos, the never moved by anything Athos, now fidgets with the hilt of his sword while tapping restlessly with his foot. All that I missed upon my entrance.  
All of a sudden, as if under a silent command, all the eyes glue upon me and the dreading feeling that something’s supposed to happen right now, something really important and crucial, makes my blood thicken and something heavy takes place in my stomach. The silence grows beyond unsettling with each and every second they keep on looking at me as if I may hold the answer. ‘They expect a reaction!’ the realisation leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.   
“Care to share the rest?” my voice is sharp and cutting, conveying my discontent to its extreme degree.  
Looking at each other, as if wondering who should be the bearer of bad news, it’s eventually D’Artagnan who looks at me and opens his mouth. Yet Constance beats him to it.  
“It was the Cardinal.” she blurs out and immediately her cheeks redden.  
Just then, as my eyes rise up to meet hers, I spot the traces of dread in there; whatever is happening that I’m obviously missing, it’s making her blood run cold and her adamant self-composure to crumble.  
“Like I said, I have no idea what his eminence wants with me.” it’s a real battle of concentration not to get side-tracked and simply blow my top off; instead my voice remains slightly angered and genuinely confused.  
A letter lands before me, slipped by Aramis with a look of apology on his face.   
“I don’t understand.” my voice begins to quiver as for once in my life I feel utterly betrayed and alone; they’re looking at me as if I stand behind all that’s happened thus far.  
“Read the letter and shed some light on its content for us.” Aramis’ soft voice is urging me to stay strong, not to turn into a cry baby, yet his compassion right now disgusts me.  
The heaviness, that minutes ago seemed disturbing, is now unbearable as I’m faced with their calculating, distanced faces; the faces of men that are here on business and are ready to pay whatever price justice requires. My fingers are shaking as I unfold the letter, barely managing to read to whom it’s addressed. ‘Cardinal Richelieu.’  
On the expensive champagne-coloured paper are scribbled in a neat handwriting only a few sentences that expose me as a witch of some sorts; I have been seen arriving in a storm, cutting the sky’s welkin like a lightning. Whoever saw me demands my immediate arrest and a trial in which I’d be burned at the stake for witchcraft.   
My eyes widen as I reread the few lines a couple of times, trying to grasp the meaning of the words; what they stand for or at least in what exactly I’m being accused. Yet, apart from guesswork and some mild statements of things that cannot be proven, there’s nothing. Then why am I so terrified? Why do I feel like things are about to get worse?  
“I have no idea what you expect of me to do with such bold naysaying. Whoever wrote this obviously has some problems in the upper departments.” my voice is ghostly calm, yet the slight quivering I hope to conceal is too evident.  
“The letter was found in the Cardinal’s study. It appears to be the last he read before he died.” Athos’ deprived of any emotion voice leaves an uneasy feeling in me that clenches my chest.  
Then it all sinks in – everything that’s happened up until now, all the attacks, the strange constant watch of the Musketeer and now this. It all leads to this very moment, the milestone in my present life. ‘A letter claiming that I’m a witch.’ For a second a scream rises to my throat, yet I push it back down and mask it with a sigh. ‘I must stay calm – hysteria will do no good. They don’t know anything, nor have a proof! No need to worry.’ And then, as if having read my thoughts, a leather bag gets thrown on the table, its content spilling. The same bag with which I arrived here over a month ago, with my cell-phone in it, make-up, purse and so on; things that are still foreign here. The same bag I hid carefully in my room under the floorboards after using it to prove my legitimacy to Constance.   
A whole minute passes, in which I simply stay immobile before jumping up and slamming my hands on the table with such force that pain shoots from my palms all the way up to my shoulder blades. If seconds ago I was willing to play the composed and humble French woman, now I’ll show them what a ‘witch’ I can be.  
“Who gave you the fucking right to enter my room and dig through my stuff?! Who gives you the right to accuse me of the murder of a man I’ve never seen in my life!? Who do you think you are, coming here and ruining everything!!!”  
I’m shouting at the top of my lungs now, yet tears choke my voice to a pathetic wail at the very end. I cannot stop them, nor can I explain their appearance. With this outburst I know I appear guilty beyond any words, yet I do not care. Because right now I feel betrayed.  
“Please, Mademoiselle, calm-” Aramis’ voice revolts me now, so I grab an eyeshadow that rolled out of the bag and hurl it his way.  
“Shut up! I’m tired of being your scapegoat!! I’m tired of being accused unfairly, of being prosecuted and followed as a criminal or constantly attacked! I’m tired of it!” with that the chair falls down with a crashing sound and I head towards the exit, the tears still rolling down my face.  
“Val!” Constance shouts out after me, her voice broken by hurt and unshed tears, yet I do not turn around.  
The click of a pistol stops me dead in my track.  
“I’ll have to ask you nicely to return and sit down at the table, Mademoiselle. We’d like an explanation. And such a dramatic exit is uncalled for.”   
Looking over my shoulder, I see Athos holding his pistol with unshaking hand, aimed straight at my back. A part of me wants to believe he wouldn’t pull the trigger, wouldn’t really hurt me, yet the cold resolve in his eyes speaks differently.   
I can leave and risk being shot in the back; that’s the only way to find out if that spark in his eyes, the worry and silent plea that shimmer under the coldness, are genuine or an act. Or I can do something entirely different. In a moment of complete irrational thinking I head his way and before he can retract his gun, the barrel gets pressed against my chest, right over my heart. Startled, he makes a move to shift, yet I wrap my hand around his and hold it in place as unshakably as I hold his gaze with mine.  
“Pull the trigger. Kill me if you don’t have it in you to believe me that I’m innocent.” the shaky notes are gone and bitter sadness makes my voice thin. “If I’m such a monster in your eyes, such a two-faced traitor, pull the damn trigger and send me down to hell.”  
One second.   
Two.   
Three.  
Nothing happens. Everyone is still frozen in their place, the Musketeers observing like mute audience what unfolds. Athos looks completely shocked; his hand is still steadily holding the gun, thus my life along with it, yet his eyes are what betrays his inner turmoil – he’s perplexed, confused, angry and worried. If I push just a little bit more, he’ll either let me leave, or kill me. Breathing in deeply and feeling the cool steel of the pistol press even firmly against my flesh, a shudder runs down my spine.  
“If not, then back down and take my word for what it’s worth – I’m innocent. I didn’t kill anyone, nor am I a witch.” at the very end, my voice breaks and new tears form in my eyes, yet I hold them back.  
“Tell me, Athos, what’s your final judgement?”   
Calmness, that’s what washed over me in what may be my last seconds in this life. ‘Maybe it’s for the best…’ the thought makes something in me revolt as that same spark of life now turns into a full-blown flame.   
Suddenly the silence is disturbed by the click of the pistol. The safety fuse is pushed back down and the gun is no longer ready to air a bullet straight through my ribcage. Blinking away the tears, I take a step back and hold his hand for a second more before letting go and retreating further towards the door. The once mighty Musketeer, unyielding under any danger life threw his way now looks as if I pulled his heart straight out of his chest. It’s a moment of weakness, or insanity as all these mishaps may have finally begun to have their toll on me, yet I decide to share some of the truth with him, only him.   
In two steps I’m close enough so that my chest touches him. With our eyes still locked, I search for anything in him that should warn me to back away, that I have crossed a line and should retreat, yet no such indication comes. In his ocean-deep eyes I see only the flame of longing burning behind what may only be layers of self-preservation and duty, of discipline and fear. And maybe it’s that spark I glimpse in the end of the road, that desire that may turn out to be something more, that makes me reveal a smidgen of the truth.  
“I’m not a witch, but a part of what that letter claims is true: I came with a storm, but it was not by choice. It’s up to you to decide what to do with this information and what to make of it.”  
We are close enough so that our breaths mix; I breathe in his and he – mine. A longing in me suddenly arises to reach out and touch him; to fill if his lips are as soft as they look; to sooth that clenching thirst that I see mirrored in his eyes. Instead I step back and leave. No banging of doors, no yelling, no cries. The lock falls in place with a soft click behind me, swallowed by the eerie silence in the room. Outside the noisy street engulfs me in a soothing embrace and the crowd of people, constantly moving, carries me away. Now I’m one of the masses; a traveller without a home, a faceless figure that just walks forward with a stone face while on the inside something continues to quiver and fall apart. A pair of blue eyes, filled with sorrow and sadness, regret and yearning, burn behind my eyelids each and every time I blink. Then unsaid accusations ring in my ears and all emotions get wiped out; like a zombie in a low-budget movie my feet carry me wherever the crowd pushes my body. The more I put distance between myself and what has become in such a short span of time to be my new family, the more I feel as if a nail’s being driven into my heart.   
A sole cry, a mash between a hiccup and a wail, skips past my tightly sealed lips before the noise from various thudding feet and horse neighs squashes it.

/***/

The streets of Paris are deserted as the night’s thick vail has been thrown over the city. The last rays of the sun long ago died out, taking the warmth along with them. In the distance the coo of a bird can be made out among the various noises coming from the taverns. Yet the small park I find refuge in is silent and void of any life; the trees’ trunks and thick shadows hide me from the eyes of any random passer-by.   
The tears long ago dried out, leaving my eyes with a stinging feeling and my face stretched and itchy. All the wailing, as there was I time in which I simply let it all out, has left my throat feeling like sandpaper and even the simplest act of whimper evokes burning pain. Physically I’m only cold and slightly stiff, as after all the walking around Paris, I have been sitting here for God knows how much time. Yet my mental state cannot flatter itself with such mild damage – I feel hollow and drained. Like all the life-force that up until now kept me going is now nowhere in sight. ‘Alone. I’m utterly and irrevocably alone in a time and place where everyone will rather claim me a witch than help me.’ And I need a lot of help; lost, isolated and fallen into disgrace, my inner walls are no longer quivering but down right falling apart. My mind had been toying with the idea that I’m locked away in a time that’s not my own, amongst people that’ll rather hate me then understand me, that now, when I’m being shunned by everyone who ever knew me or was mildly willing to help me, I know it all comes to a drastic end. ‘People take the bullet for less mental stress than this. And I’m carrying some badass baggage here.’ A weak smile tugs the corners of my lips upwards, yet even this simple action exhausts me.   
Time has passed unnoticed by me, and now, as my unseeing eyes gaze at the welkin, I feel as if an eternity has rushed past. A voice somewhere whispers that this is my last line of defence, a weak push of my brain to preserve my sanity. ‘Make it all feel distant and long gone. Nice try.’   
The tranquillity of the night is harshly disturbed by the appearance of a group of drunken men that sway dangerously on their feet. A part of them are singing a song of some kind, or at least I believe it to be a song, and the rest are quarrelling or laughing with their heads thrown back. The picture is worth pity as these men, in their sorrow, have neglected whatever families they have and simply drunk themselves into oblivion. Poverty does that to people – it makes them build walls and silence their consciousness in order for the brain to function somewhat properly and not shut down at the prospect of the upcoming death by starvation. Yet as my eyes follow their wobbly movements, their dangerously inclining bodies or how their laughter cuts at the air almost grotesquely, a desire to be like them, drunk and uncooperative, washes over me.   
“It’s unwise for a young beautiful lady like you to stay here in the shadows alone, unguarded.” an unfamiliar male voice, growling and almost snickering, comes from my right, making me jump.  
So lost was I in thought and dream, that I never really noticed someone sneaking up on me. ‘Dire mistake, Valary! Very, very stupid!’ In a jiff all the melancholy that made me lethargic and gloomy seconds ago, with suicidal thoughts brimming my mind, evaporates and I’m on my highest of guard. Alert and ready to bounce at him or run away, my eyes follow the movements of the man as he comes out of the shadows and heads towards me with a gait of a Don Juan. ‘A lustful drunk or a rapist. Either way a kick in the nuts or an elbow in the nose should be sufficient.’  
“Who told you I’m on my own, Monsieur?” straightening my shoulders and raising my chin, my eyes clash with his.  
The stranger is a man of forty with grizzling chestnut hair and dark eyes, whose colour I cannot make out with the lack of any decent light. He is rather short, almost reaching my height and appears to be with a strong build, like a man who’s been a hard labourer all his life –wide shoulders, with heavily muscled arms and forearms peeking from under the rolled sleeves of his old shirt. Nothing in his appearance gives away the signs of any recent trauma or fatigue, meaning that I don’t have the upper hand against an opponent like him.   
“And where are your … friends?” his sinister smirk makes something in me quiver, yet I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear as that’ll be his cue to lung forward.  
“Around here. My companion will be here any moment and he’ll be greatly displeased if he finds you troubling me, Monsieur.” He draws even nearer and I manage to glimpse at the reflexion of something metal tucked in his pocket. ‘A pistol probably. Or maybe a very impressive knife.’  
“But Madame, I have no ill intentions towards you.” yet his face shows something entirely different.  
“Then I’d ask you to leave me alone.” panic takes root within my very core as the fact that no one is coming will soon become evident.  
Ignoring the warning glare I throw his way, the stranger comes even nearer, making me bolt from the wooden bench and move to the side. My heartbeat goes from mild worry to utter terror in only a nanosecond; it bangs so hard that it borders the point where it’s painful to breathe. Yet adrenalin is now getting energetically pumped through my veins and fills my drained from the day body with new waves of strength and agility.   
“Come here, ma cherie, and I won’t hurt ya…. much.” his lips stretch into a malicious grin, showing a set of still intact, yet definitely rotten teeth.  
After that he charges forward with exceptional speed, his hands open and ready to snatch or in the worst case - tumble me over. Yet expecting such course of action, as it’s the most evident one a man in his place can undertake, I throw myself to the side just in time. With dread the realisation that my feet are too heavy to carry me in a decent run hits me, yet my fighting spirit is what saves me from buckling my knees and turning into a weeping mass of sobs and hiccups. ‘I’m fast. And definitely smarter than him. If only I had a weapon!’ yet nothing is currently strapped to my feet, nor tucked between the heavy layers of cloth of my skirt.   
“Come ‘ere darling.” his hands stretch my way in another attempt to grab me, yet once again I dart to the side.  
Which turns out to be a bad move, as my back hits the trunk of a tree, blocking any further departure. With all potential exits being cut out and immediate danger right in front of me, a strange sense of heaviness sets in my stomach, making me nauseous. ‘Abhorrence at the fact that I’m doomed most probably.’ A hand-to-hand combat is all I can rely on now, yet taking into consideration my opponent’s large hands, a successful hit in the head will send me down unconscious, with stars twirling over my head. Gritting my teeth and raising my hands up in front of my body, a plan begins to form in the back of my mind.  
The man’s muscles tighten and strain like wires. There’s an evil grin on his face as he mocks my potential fighting abilities and pities whatever scraps of self-preservation I have left. His feet part but not enough, meaning his balance will be easy to break. A second filled with tension follows, as we look each other up and down appraisingly. Then I jump and land the first blow - straight in his stomach, making him bend over and cuss. Using the initial force, my right hand grabs him by the head and my knee rises up to meet with his face. With a howl of pain he falls down on his back, blood covering his face and muffling his words. ‘A broken nose for sure and potentially fractured cheekbone.’ At this point I’d have run for the hills, yet the culprit pulls out his gun, I knew it!, and points it at my chest.  
“Good aim for a wench like yourself. I’ll take great please in breaking your spirit before I’m done with your body.” the gloating in his voice makes shivers run down my spine and I make no attempt to hide how petrified I am.  
The realisation that it’s over, that either I get shot here or raped and killed elsewhere, sinks in and a sense of calmness comes next, soothing my strained nerves. It’s all over – no more worrying about someone putting the pieces together about my presence here; no more quivering about the blood on my hands; and no more longing about affection.   
“Pull the trigger then, ‘cus I won’t allow a swine like you touch me.” the cutting edge of my voice still possess the eerie calmness of resignation, the acceptance of fate.  
Finally back on his feet, but not without a certain amount of pain, I notice with a dark sense of superiority and victory, the man sneers and continues to point his pistol at my chest. ‘This’s becoming a habit.’ the dark irony makes something in me snap and a giggle skips past my chapped lips.   
“Lower the pistol, Monsieur, or it will be my duty to kill you and, incidentally, my pleasure. ” the voice comes from the shadows and holds such coldness and warning that a shiver runs down my spine once again.  
From between the trees, with slow and patient steps, strides out an acquaintance of mine, who I thought I’d never wish to see again, yet now I’m delighted to meet. Enough even to throw my hands around his neck and kiss him for his impeccable timing. Athos’ hand holds the pistol with a steady grip, unshaking and aimed with precision. His hat hides his face, yet the firm line of his clenched jaw and the tightly pressed lips give away that he won’t hesitate to live up to his warning. My prosecutor looks at me with a sick feeling of hatred before lowering the gun. Until that moment I didn’t realise I have been holding my breath until now I exhale with relief.  
With a tilt of his head the Musketeer urges me to move away and I gladly do so. Scurrying back down the main street and away from the entangled branches of the trees, my steps hit the gravel hard, yet my knees threaten to buckle soon enough. A whiff of wind hits me in the face and the sweat drops that have formed over my forehead now make my skin bristle. Wiping my face with the back of my hand and doing anything possible to calm down my rapid heartbeat, I wait for my saviour’s return near the light coming from a window.   
“Are you alright, Mademoiselle?” Athos sounds mildly concerned, yet when I steal a look at his face there’s something more in his eyes than polite curiosity.  
His skin now appears ghostly pale, as if he passed through serious trials of strength and endurance before coming here. Also there are mud stains over his uniform, indicating some action throughout the day.  
“I’ll survive.” my voice is dull and distanced as I walk away, unwilling to show him how shaken I am.  
He follows silently close by, like a guard escorting a criminal, and doesn’t make any attempt to speak. The streets are deserted and creepy, with the wind howling around and carrying clouds of leaves and dust. The heavy scent of stagnant water gets whiffed from the Seine, making me suddenly long for the sandy beaches on which I loved to spend a better part of my holidays when back in my home country. The nearest equivalent now is the clogged river that passes through Paris and carries away the filth from the city. Stopping dead in my track and closing my eyes, suddenly feeling not only drained but also as if the ground beneath my feet has vanished, another hot wave washes over my nervous endings, making them react. Then I realise my body’s action is due to Athos’ hands wrapping around me and keeping me upright, as my feet obviously failed to do their job.  
“Mademoiselle Bellanger! Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” many emotions flicker in his eyes, yet barely reach his voice.  
And for once I don’t mind. I am so used to reading people like open books, that when finally a man stands before me with his expressions of stoicism and complete disinterest I am left dumbstruck and irritated, thus immediately building a not so favourable opinion of him. How wrong was I, how blind and narrow-minded in my assessment of his personal traits and qualities. ‘Would any of my friends back in London threaten to shoot my potential rapist? Will they even intervene?’ as those thoughts swipe past my mind, I realise I’ve been clinging to him for a second too long, have been looking into his eyes a thud more than appropriate. And suddenly I don’t care about what happened back in the house this afternoon. It hurts me to know they still suspected me of murder, that they rummaged through my things and went as far as to corner me, yet it was all without ill-will, but the greater good in mind. Or something as noble as that.  
“I know I’m in no position to ask, but can you do me a few favours before escorting me to the prison, or wherever you take the accused?”   
“I cannot promise anything until I hear what you desire, Mademoiselle.” his voice is deep, maybe even deeper than a few seconds ago as none of us has put some respectable distance between our bodies or intends to do so. “And you are no longer accused of anything.”  
“I’m not?”  
“No, we unravelled the whole mystery this afternoon after you…” here he pauses, obviously remembering the scene with his pistol pressed against my chest and the proximity between our bodies… or at least I think of that.  
“After I fled?” providing a word with less offensive meaning is the least I can do to save him the embarrassment of feeling awkward in my presence.  
“Indeed. We found the culprits and justice has been served accordingly.”   
A second of silence follows, in which I think through what to do – I can continue with my initial plan or simply ask him to take me back home. Yet at the prospect of returning so soon and voiding myself of his company, I feel aggravated.   
“About those favours,” with a swift motion I both change the topic and slip out of his embrace, “First, at least for as long as we are in our mutual company, don’t call me Mademoiselle or something so formal. Val or Valary will do perfectly fine.”  
He appears perplexed as to why I may ask such a thing and his always suspicious mind immediately flickers to life. Rolling my eyes at the defensive mechanism, my hands come to rest on my hips in a challenging manner.  
“It doesn’t suit my personality to address me in such a formal manner. I’m no Mademoiselle. I’m just me.” a tired sigh follows and I look at him pleadingly. “I understand that it’s done out of respect, yet I can hardly bear with it.”  
Deeming my plea and the followed explanation agreeable, the Musketeer nods his head and a ghost of a smile appears on his face at my happy sigh and the giddy smile.  
“What else does Mademoi- … Valary, desire?” the way my name rolls off his tongue sends something in me on fire.  
In loss of words and any coherent thoughts whatsoever for way too long of a time, another whiff of the river’s muddy waters snaps me out of my daze.  
“Yes, uhm, I want to see the Seine, but I have no clue how to get there. I would have asked you to escort me, but -”  
“It will be my pleasure.” he cuts me off, and I pray he hasn’t noticed the obvious redness on my cheeks.  
As a true gentleman he offers me his elbow so that the next time I trip, which happens to be approximately two steps later, or feel weak in the knees, ten steps later, he’ll be able to keep me balanced or at least prevent a really humiliating tumbling over.  
“Anything else I can be of service with?” there’s a slight joking hint to his voice and I almost vocally squeal with glee.   
Instead, a smirk tugs at my lips and I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye. The hat casts thick shadows on his face, yet the outline of his lips, now curled upwards in a barely concealed smile, is visible enough for my already used to the darkness sight.   
“Well… since you mentioned it…” it’s fun to play and joke around, to tease and test how far he is willing to go in pleasing me.  
A theatrical sigh is what my girlish words evoke, making me snort and then laugh.   
“God, you sound seriously troubled as to what I may ask of you!” my small laugh rings in the air around us, the silence carrying it away in all directions.  
“I’m barely acquainted with your … desires. From what I can make out, you appear to be woman of great… surprises.”   
“Good save.” I mutter and shake my head before meeting his gaze. “You have put together an excellent picture of me, Monsieur. I dare say, you have me figured out.” the huskiness in my voice, mostly put there for a dramatic effect, makes something in his eyes change.  
The cool level-headedness is switched for something entirely different for a second, something more vehement than I had ever seen on his face; yet it’s a fleeting glimpse at his inner thoughts, so in an eye blink it’s gone.  
“And yet your thoughts stay as unreachable to me, as you sometimes appear to be. Maybe I do not know you so well.”   
“You remember me asking about a decent fencing teacher not so long ago?”  
He gives a small nod, all the meanwhile looking around and searching the street for any potential danger that may be lurking in the shadows. True to his promise, he told me about a few good swordsmen that were willing to take up training a woman. What he missed to mention was that they were all rather old-fashioned women-haters that were willing to help me only in favour of having a good laugh when I failed.  
“Well, I’ve decided on one.”   
“Is that so? And who has the honour?” by how his jaw clenches and the small smile melts away into a light frown, I know he’s not entirely pleased with my words.  
‘Odd. He recommended these men to me and now appears unsatisfied with my choice.’ a small sinister snicker resonates in the back of my head at the prospect of enlightening him on this very peculiar, so to say, subject.   
“He strikes me as a real gentleman, despite being young in age, and is a man with honour who’d help me in favour of bettering my skills rather than humiliating me in front of his friends. I haven’t asked him yet, but I hold great hopes he’ll agree to tutor me.”  
It’s exhilarating to see the emotions skipping past the Musketeer’s face; and just as perplexing in trying to put a name or reason to them. Either way one thing is for sure – he’s not delighted for some unknown to me reason.   
“I’m sure he’ll find it an honour to teach a woman such as you. Few are the representatives of your gender that show any interest whatsoever in such a fine art of self-defence.”  
‘The words of a professional – never offensive, yet as little personal opinion put in them as possible.’  
“I’m glad to hear that, Monsieur, as I was genuinely worried about receiving a negative response. Tell me when you’re free and we’ll begin.”  
Athos’ expression is priceless – widened eyes and slightly parted lips on the background of a bird’s random call of love. He even stops dead in his track as soon as my words sink in. Now his eyes narrow slightly and he studies my face.  
“There is no falsehood, so I advise against searching for it. Instead tell me your answer, Monsieur.” despite my best attempts to keep myself calm and mildly interested, my voice quivers at the end.  
A whole minute passes in silence before he resumes his pace, with me next to him, armed tucked in the crook of his elbow.   
“I’m no teacher and am afraid our mutual work won’t be beneficial for your development.”  
“I disagree. You’ve proven to possess the most highly-rated qualities I seek in a teacher.”  
“Is that so?”  
Stealing a glance from the corner of my eyes at him, I note Athos looks somehow unnerved or exhilarated – it’s hard to put a name to an emotion I barely manage to glimpse at. Either way, more prone to look at the positive option, I continue on convincing him why he is the perfect and, ironically, the only choice I have.  
“First of all, you are the best swordsman in the regiment, and that information has been confirmed not by one or two. Second, you are hard to anger, so patience is a virtue you possess as far as I’ve seen. Then comes your lack of any evident traits of sexism, so I know you won’t judge me unfairly. Also I’m perfectly assured that no matter how humiliatingly I may fail, you’ll keep the information to yourself. Thus, I want you to tutor me.”  
We walk a few more feet down the street in silence as I leave him to mull over my proposition. It’s not unheard of for a woman to seek enlightenment in the field of combat, yet never was the tutor a Musketeer still on duty.  
“I hope you know that as a teacher I won’t show neither mercy nor compassion if you lag behind or don’t take things seriously?” his voice is strict, as if lecturing me.  
Instead of getting offended, a small laugh leaves my lips.  
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less from a Musketeer.”  
The rest of the way to the bank of the river we spend in quality silence, each lost in their own thoughts and plans.   
In the distance a bird gives a lonely loud chirp that rises high in the air before dying out. Seconds later another one, distinctively male, comes from the opposite end as a response and a warm greeting. Two lovers have just found themselves in the city of love.


	4. What's the probability of phone reception?

“Parry!”   
“I’m trying!”  
“You hardly focus your attention. By now I’d have killed you four times.”  
Not waiting for yet another pitiful excuse as to why my mind is obviously occupied with something else, Athos once again attacks. His rapier comes so close to cutting my cheek that for a second the horror of him actually scarring me makes my face become chalky. Putting some distance between us, I raise my own weapon and try to focus on his next move, to read his body language and successfully prevent any real damage befalling me. Once again he’s the first to advance, this time aiming to cut me and to put an end to this already prolonged training session. The sharp end of the rapier comes at a low angle, meaning that I can hardly deflect it the way I do best. So doing a moved called a coulé, I manage to protect my body from harm.   
“Not bad. You’re coming round finally. Shall I send for some wine to aid your paleness?” mocking me is a ticket straight to Angerville and my opponent knows that pretty well.  
Frowning and calming the loud banging of my heart, curse its fleetingness, I circle Athos with careful steps, looking for any giveaway indicators as to what he may plan on doing next. Out of the blue, he lowers his rapier with a sharp movement, the tip touching the ground. Perplexed as to what this means, I raise a questioning eyebrow his way.  
“You are obviously unwilling to train today. And I’m unwilling to waste my time.” with that he shelters his weapon and turns to leave.  
A week ago I’d have gloated at him, mocked his retreat, even laugh, anything to get him to turn back and not give up on me. As predicted, Athos’ tutoring is a hard ordeal in which we both seem to be continuously stumbling upon problems – my lack of impeccable concentration, his inability to stay calm and patient for more than 20 minutes, and so on. Yet a pattern, simple but efficient, we did manage to create out of all this. He’ll push me around, corner me, even humiliate me if needed so to snap me out of my stupor. In return, I’ll try to chop off a limb or two, or at least land a lucky blow and cut his shirt open. ‘It’s like dancing with a viper – a continuously spinning circle of anticipation as to when it will strike.’ A dark smirk tugs at my lisp as I soundlessly melt away the distance between us. Unlike everything else, sneaking around people is like a second nature to me, so as I come to be in his range of attack, my rapier pokes his back.  
“Allez!” for once I say the magic word, my voice ringing with a mixture of determination and excitement.  
A pause follows, as Athos seems to be either about to shoo me away or draw his weapon. Both scenarios bear the risk of me landing a blow and shredding his skirt – a habit I’ve grown to love as it not only irritates him but also allows me to steal a glimpse at his body before looking away, modesty and all.  
Without a word he spins, his weapon miraculously out of its hoister, and with a clear movement pushing mine away. A step back to gain my balance is all he needs to move in a stance of attack. A heartbeat is the span in which I must make my mind as to how to react. ‘Not all circumstances will allow you to fix a plan beforehand. You must learn to think on the spot, to be perceptive enough so to know what to do.’ his words from our first lesson ring in my head. Usually my sanity says to move to the side, step back, anything to miss a potential blow. Yet, as of a few days now, another voice rules my body once a weapon ends in my hand. This same little jingle of words, which scarily much resembles Athos’ voice says Attack! Defend yourself! And so I do.  
Instead of a step back, I do the opposite; the balesta is a risky move with such a skilled opponent as him, yet I go for it. The sound of steel colliding with steel and then the dragging of the one against the other echoes around us, the wind carrying the noise through the nearby forest. As my blade glides down his, my body’s inertia has me moving even further into Athos’ range of attack, enough so that if I stretch my hand forward, I can touch him freely. Going further in, I parry the few hits he can do from such a close range, as I’m too near for any real attack, yet close enough to inflict damage if the occasion presents itself. He knows that while he’s more of the wide range fencer, I’m proficient in the close one, thus it’s logical for him to do a pass backwards, his steps as light as feathers, yet grounded and unshakable as his feet carry his body’s weight evenly balanced. Mimicking his motion and continuing to search for a break in his defence and find a potential opening, my eyes stay glued to his. Taking into consideration the vehemence with which we lung at each other, with our eyes locked, it’s a real miracle no one has either tripped over a random rock or stabbed the other by mistake. To the random observer we probably look like the perfect match – deflecting the other’s blows, synchronising our movements and successfully not injuring each other. Yet anyone with the eye of a professional will notice how my hands tire quickly, how my feet are more cautious or how my eyes stay focused for far too long on his face, not monitoring his hands or feet.  
In a moment of absentmindedness, which Athos notices of course, how could he not, an opening in my own defence projects itself and he aims for it. In the last minute I parry and then riposte, once again stepping into his zone of blindness, as I love to call it since the proximity leaves him almost unable to do anything. Eventually, after a series of lungs and deflecting, we come so close that we breathe each other’s breath, corps-à-corps as it goes, with the blades between our bodies as we are both pressing against the other in attempt to break stance and misbalance the opponent.   
‘His eyes are the deepest ocean blue I have ever seen. They have speckles in them! God, and the way they light up whenever we duel.’ the thought, so random, does its usual job at distracting me and waking a certain uneasiness, which I barely managed to put down before coming here. Truth be told, ever since we began to spend more time together, I’ve caught myself gazing at Athos, following his movements, urging him to speak about minor things so to just hear his voice. And when every once in a while I stop to analyse all these oddities, a strange warm feeling settles in the pits of my stomach. The goosebumps that run up and down my spine are indicative as to what amount of influence his sole being has over me. What’s even more troubling is that while I appear to be developing a fancy towards him, he probably senses that and usually uses it against me while we fight; being by a random touch, a word spoken in a moment of tense silence, a random smirk or simply by looking at me with those brilliant eyes of his that disarm me worryingly fast, he always picks the right moment to distract me in a way that leads to my inevitable defeat.  
This time the bait is those ocean blue pools of his. By the time I get my senses back in track, we are close enough for our noses to touch and my whole body reacts to his proximity by relaxing. Thus, sensing the weakening in my stand, he gives another push and before I know it I’m disarmed, with my rapier flying in the air and his being pressed against my throat. It almost always happens like this – he manages to distract me and then points a sword to my neck.  
“Touché.”   
His soft murmur barely reaches my ears as blood now makes my eardrums pulsate and heat rises to my face from shame.  
Shame that I’m so obvious in my favours towards him; shame that even when fighting I cannot pull my mind away from the potential concept of hurting him and thus my own skills falter; shame that he sees my inner battle with whatever I’m feeling for him and disregards it in the best case, and in the worst uses it against me. ‘It’s like he finds joy in playing with me – one second he teases and, dare I say, flirts, and the next, bam!, I have a sword pressed to my artery.’ It’s a situation worth pity, of that much I’m aware, yet there’s nothing that can be done. Confronting him with my amours will drive him away, whereas pretending that they do not exist is mostly impossible.  
Shaking my head and raising my hands in defeat, I look away at the surrounding nature and try to mull at what to do. It’s been over a month now since the tutoring began, and with each hour I spend in his presence, I can feel myself falling deeper and harder for him. My senses are tingling whenever he’s close, even if not for my sake. His voice sends thrills chasing down my spine and redness blossoms on my face whenever he laughs. Constance was the first to point out to me that certain changes have occurred: quite often I have come to gaze at the Musketeers’ leader; I put more vehemence in my training in order to please him. And while losing myself in a spiral of never ceasing agony of something that can never be, I’ve been missing the world around me. ‘I should put an end to this.’ the thought is random, yet holds some truth to it, so I exploit it further, letting my mind play with it, despite the convulsive pain it brings. ‘I should quite this charade and just put some respectable distance between us. There are far more reasons for us to stay away from each other than be together.’ Stealing a glance at Athos, I note he seems unaffected the least by what keeps on unfolding between us. ‘He’s either ignoring it for the sake of going through the lessons, or doesn’t care.’ Both options leave a dull ache in my chest.   
“Where are you off to now?” the huskiness in his voice snaps me out of my thoughts and I look at him.  
Back in his Musketeer uniform, all leather and weapons, with his hat in his left hand and the right resting on the hilt of his sword, he’s the picture of professionalism; his face betrays nothing, and neither does his body language. Yet long ago I learned that his eyes are the windows to his soul – the blue is vibrant after the spar, as adrenalin still courses though his body; while at the same time there’s the usual sternness there, a habit left after years spend in keeping people out of his business; and then there’s the inevitable mixture of amusement and irritation as he has yet again caught me spacing out. And below all that, under the layers and walls he has erected around himself, I see something else; a foreign feeling, some warmth and probably affection, to which I cannot put a name. His look unnerves me, as it feels like a bitter mock towards my affections towards him.   
“Just thinking.” the usual reply is accompanied by a shrug as I collect my stuff.  
“About?”   
This also has become a part of a pattern – he’ll comment on my mental distancing, I’ll shrug it off, he’ll show mild curiosity and I’ll ignore it. He won’t press further and I’ll pretend that doesn’t hurt me.   
“You.” The word slips past my lips too late for me to stop it.  
With the deed done, the confession out of my mouth mostly by mistake than deliberately, for once I see shock cross his face. Then, almost visually, his ears perk up and he tilts his head to the side, prompting me to continue. Yet I seal my lips and hastily fix my braid, unwilling to discuss the subject further.   
“Enlighten me.” His voice comes from closer than it should, making me steal a glance over my shoulder and find him almost pressed against my back.  
Heat immediately rises to my cheeks, yet with stubbornness rivalling the one of a mule, I disregard his presence and walk forward, showing my reluctance to further broach the topic.  
“Forget I said anything.” That is all that comes from me as I head towards the horses.  
The two black stallions, one his and the other borrowed from the garrison, are tied under the thick shade of an oak tree, with fresh grass all around them and the cool currents of a river within reach. Both creatures look pleased as the weather is good and the provided conditions please them, yet Athos’ has that alerted eagerness surrounding it, so characteristic for its rider.   
“But you did. I want to know why.”  
For once he doesn’t back down, but keeps on pressing. Once again a war is waged within me, as my brain tells me to shut my mouth and keep on walking, while my heart, that fluttering fool, wants to finally spill the secret and see what happens. Because, at the end of the day, a part of me clings to the hope that he may feel something towards me; something more than friendship. Some of his actions speak of such inclinations, yet others offhandedly refute them. In the end I’m left confused and agitated, as neither keeping it to myself, nor being that straightforward about my feeling is inherent to me.   
“It slipped. Now drop it.” my voice leaves no place for further arguments and by now he must know that once having reached this point, I’ll surely not cave in.  
That’s why his next movements catches me completely off-guard and leaves me dumbstruck for a second. His hand slips around my waist and he pulls me towards his chest after spinning me around. The gesture wouldn’t have evoked such a response from me if it isn’t for how he tugs me close, how his whole body envelops me in an embrace that leaves all my neural endings tingling. Or how his lips slightly part. I come undone the second he has me so close. ‘Too close.’ A voice in my head warns, yet it’s too late. Before I can stop myself, as if something momentary possesses my body, my hands come to rest on his chest and my head tilts slightly back as I lean forward. The touch, when it occurs, is fleeting, yet charged with emotions. It’s a peck on the lips, which in truth are as soft as they look, but before anything more can happen he pulls back harshly, as if I burned him. And then it downs on me – he was just testing me; the physical contact was a test, a mean to provoke me to speak. And I completely blew it up.   
A second of awkward silence follows before I literally jump back as if he hit me, turn on my heel and run towards the general direction of Paris. Vaguely, in the back of my mind, I can hear him calling out my name.   
My eyes are stinging with unshed tears, a lump in my throat prevents me from speaking and the fatigue from seconds ago now’s forgotten in favour of getting as far away from the male as possible. Away from his shocked eyes that pretty soon will acquire their judging, distant look, a result of my half-baked and rash action. ‘Stupid! Stupid! Idiot!’ the words reverberate in my brain like hammers in every language I know as with each mile passed, something in me crumbles down. Reading the signals, if there were even any, in the worst possible way, it’s now due to my fault that I have to run away like a coward and feel like shit. Later I may find something humorous in the whole situation, and even a newspaper headline of the sorts ‘A Musketeer of the King’s guard assaulted by a crazy chick’ and even some smugness about finally snapping his impossible to shock mask, but at this very moment I want the ground to open and swallow me whole. And, if possible, spit me out back in the 21st century where I’ll never have the misfortune to walk on him. ‘Pathetic, stupid little girl! Has life taught you nothing!?’ The harshness of my own consciousness is like pouring salt over fresh wounds, yet I stoically grit my teeth and keep on running through the forest.  
The meadow we chose for training is not at all far away from the city, yet it provides secureness and insularity like no other place. At first every thought about it I associated with either the beautiful scenery, the nature and flowers, or with spending time with the man that has begun to plague my dreams. Now it will only remind me of my humiliation, at how I managed with a single foolish mistake, one wrong step, to ruin a decent friendship and thus mark an end to any further acquainting with said individual.  
Twigs snap harshly under my feet and the residents dart out of my way as my legs carry me with such speed that it’s almost unbelievable. Yet with tear-filled eyes, a chaotic brain and broken concentration, it’s just natural that I miss to spot a root that’s quite prominently raised above the ground. The front of my left foot gets caught in the loop, thus breaking my balance and sending me forward with a sharp yelp. The inertia that I’ve gathered, now has me rolling down a mildly steep hill and eventually hitting the ground down with a thud, followed by a small moan of pain. If there was a part in my body that up until now didn’t hurt from all the physical torture my tutor put me through, then now there’s none left. As I manage to roll myself on my back, a sharp jab of pain in my right side signalises some damage has been done. After further inspection I note that my left shoulder appears to be dislocated and my bum literally pulsates in-tact with my rapid heartbeat. My head appears to be pounding as well, but for all I know that may be caused by the emotional breakdown I’m having.   
The river close by murmurs, its riffles singing a lulling song that has my mind losing focus on the present and systematically shutting off. Fighting the beginning of what can only be a blackout, I try to stir, to sit, anything to get my mind back into action. Yet each movement proves to bring forward an unbelievable amount of searing pain; each twitch makes me believe a nervous ending has been damaged and every whimper – that my lungs were either pierced, or my vocal cords are just giving up on me. The newly appeared weight on my chest that seems to be pressing me down and the inability to call out for help all form the perfect soil for panic to take root.   
Lying flat on my back, with my hands and feet held in strange ways so to cause less pain and my eyes staring up at the cloudless blue sky, I vaguely notice that my sight appears blurry. The images are smudged and somehow deformed, as if I’m looking through a shattered mirror. Then it hits me – I’m crying; the silent rivulets run down my face, leaving pink trails in their way as they smudge the blood from a wound somewhere on my head. The pulsation covers my whole body and I can no longer tell where one begins and other - ends.   
A sudden realisation, a thought that sparkles from within the darkness of my mind like the flicker of a candle, throws me into a silent tantrum that lasts a second before it melts into a cold indifference as that’s the only thing that is able to save the scraps of my sanity at this point.  
‘Rolling down the hill is less painful than the look Athos gave me after I kissed him.’  
That’s when I know I’m either completely messed up, or utterly in love. Both are equally horrifying, yet possible. Yet the latter will bring more destruction in its wake than the first.   
The darkness that creeps at the corners of my eyes suddenly thickens and overwhelms me, drowning the world in nothingness and peace. At least now I can rest unbothered.

/***/

The office is buzzing like a beehive with activity as the newest, last-minute hot-flavoured news get reported back into the headquarters with exceptional speed and shocking punctuality. I vaguely realise I’m sitting on my desk, my fingers mercilessly hitting the keyboard as I file in my latest article. The voices around me are dulled, as if simply there to create a background and catching a phrase appears almost impossible.   
“Valeria! The boss asks for you.” my best friend ever since university, Bonny, appears next to me, her always-present sassiness now slightly distorted by worry.  
An unlikely combination, yet her hot-headed personality allows such mashups to thrive since by spirit and mind she’s more passion and less reason.   
My sight blurs and next thing I know, I’m standing in the office of my boss, Jeremy. The room is floor-to-ceiling black wood and white aluminium, with nice leather furniture and a massive desk right in the middle. All other details, usually revived mostly by memory, are now either not here of simply smudged. A voice is the back of my head whispers that this is most probably a dream or a hallucination, as only on Hell’s day will the pedant Jeremy get rid of his favourite couches. My focus is pinned to the back of the chair, now facing the huge windows and my body rejects the signals I send it to move.   
“You asked for me?”   
The chair spins with a low creak and before my eyes appears not Jeremy’s fair-skinned, nicely shaved face, but rather the one of a woman. She has dark, chocolate curls falling down her shoulders in a waterfall of ringlets. ‘That’s outdated!’ my inner editor screeches and narrows her eyes.   
“I did. You are the new intern, Valary, right?” her voice is sugar-coated, and under all the apparent sweetness, there’s a cold-laced danger.   
Wanting to correct her, as that’s not my name, I realise my lips are numb and almost stitched together. Furthermore there’s no sound coming from my vocal cords, as if they’re not there at all. As panic begins to take root and chills run down my spine, the scene suddenly changes and ripples, as if someone threw a stone in a perfectly still lake.  
The fancy, 21st century room gets misshaped for a moment, before returning back into its outlines, just with a completely different decor. The walls are now plain stone and rotten wood, the floor is covered in thin straw layout and there are no longer windows. ‘A cell!’ my mind screams, yet to my utter horror, my body continues to stay completely uncooperative. The woman before me has changed as well, as she appears more in her element here. The ringlets framing her face appear black rather than brown, and give her an even paler look with sharper looking chin and nose. An old-fashioned dress is her cloth of choice, yet somehow in the given situation that doesn’t appear as ridiculous as my tailor-made suit.   
“You know, I’ve been watching you for quite some time,” she begins, her voice calm, reminding me of the sky before a storm “a very spectacular entry, I admit. A child of a storm. Peculiar, yet quite threadbare.”   
While speaking, she comes closer, and I manage to make the outlines of her face better – dark eyes, small nose, bloody-red lips, yet even at such proximity there’s no name coming forward to put to such a stone-carved face.   
“Who… who…. who are you?” Suddenly my body is shaking and fear, primal and blood-chilling, washes through my veins.  
A cold, almost cutting smile tugs at her lips as she eyes me with unhidden hatred.   
“You don’t deserve him, so I’d advise you against continuing to pester him with your presence. Let him go and return to you rotten world. You don’t belong by his side.”   
The words bring tears to my eyes and all the self-control I once possessed now appears to have disappeared. It’s like my body has a mind of its own, acts and reacts on its own accord, making my mind turn into a locked away prisoner, from where I can merely observe.   
“He’s mine. He has always been and always will be.” Leaning even closer to my face, a whiff of lavender-scented perfume reaches my nose. “Walk away while you still can, or else you’ll give me a reason to interfere. And believe me when I tell you, sweet little Valary, if I get my hands on you, you’ll regret the day you were born.”  
Her nose almost touches mine and the lavender now awakens a deeply-rooted desire to throw up. Her eyes are void of mercy or compassion; they appear like two black holes in her head.   
“Mark my words, outlander, I’ll destroy you as swiftly as a hurricane plugs at the defenceless flower if you keep on wagging your tail around him. He’s mine. Always. And forever.”  
The last words resonate in the room as if she shouted them, yet I can swear she didn’t. Suddenly everything begins to shake and crumble; the walls fall apart and the ceiling splits open, allowing me to see the storm brooding over our heads. The only thing louder than the howl of the wind is the mysterious woman’s dark laughter. 

/*/*/*

“VALARY!” a distant shout shoves me out of the nightmare, so realistic and fictional at the same time that for a second I’m left disorientated and confused as to where my whereabouts lay.  
As I try to stand up and look around, severe pain zaps through my spine, over each and every bone possible, strikes each neuron ending I have and finally mows down my muscles. A startled cry of pain leaves my chapped lips and tears form in the brims of my eyes. Unable to hold them back, as even the air gets knocked out of my lungs, they stream down my sides.   
“VALARY!” the shout, at first one, gets repeated several times by different voices and forms an echo the wind carries around.  
“I’m here…” the low croak barely makes it out pass my lips, as my dry throat leaves no place for even a whimper, let alone speech.   
The trees’ crowns rustle as the night’s wind runs through the leaves and disturbs their peaceful rest. I hear the voices once again, yet now they appear distant, dulled, as if moving further away from me. Panic is quick to appear, urging my heart to pump blood faster through my wounded body. Ignoring the pain, I part my lips again and try to speak, yet nothing but a small whimper comes out. ‘My body’s not only sore, but numb from all the laying on the ground. If I don’t shout for help, they’ll leave and I’ll die.’ the primitive and quite simplified inclination of my thoughts at this moment is down-right worrying, yet the truthfulness is evident. If I keep quiet they’ll pass me by and I’ll stay here for the rest of the night. ‘Shout then, dammit! Signalise your whereabouts!’ All it takes for this simple plan to get fulfilled is for me to move around and try to sit up. Everything stings in protest and wave after wave of searing pain washes over me, almost knocking me out. A shrill scream erupts from my lips, sounding distorted and high-pitched.  
“THERE! VALARY!”   
It appears the torturous plan did its job as the voices come closer, the sound of rustling footsteps nearing the bank of the river.   
Barely in a semi sitting position, and that’s mostly thanks to the giant rock close by, the first to see my beaten body is Athos. ‘Of course! I’d have been worried if it unfolded any other way!’ seeing that I’m saved from being eaten by a random wolf, my sarcastic side kicks in with full-force now. ‘’Cus one humiliation was definitely not enough for today!’  
By the time I shake away the last remains of dizziness and get my mind back into its usual track, the Musketeer is kneeling by my side. The moonlight is dim, as clouds have appeared and sheltered the ivory illumination the round pearl provides, yet I can clearly make out the chalkiness of his face and how wide his eyes are. The blue, dazzling a few hours ago, now appears black and voids his eyes of their usual calmness. He’s hectic and beyond worried, so no words manage to come out of his mouth the first few seconds.  
“Are you alright?” Is what finally splits the heavy silence between us, as suddenly the grass became so much more interesting to observe than before.  
“Bruised and shaken, but I’ll survive.” It’s amazing how a whole sentence manages to escape my dried lips, yet at the price of an awful cough.  
It takes a minute, the time needed for the rest of the men to come down the hill, for my lungs to stop contracting and for the tears in my eyes to dry out.   
“You need to tell me where it hurts.” The medic in Aramis has now come forward as he scrutinises my body, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows.  
“I can tell you where it doesn’t.” The low groggy laugh gets cut off by a whimper as he touches my dislocated shoulder. “I hope you can push that back in place.”  
The Musketeer nods, yet his eyes keep on traveling up and down my body, in search for any external wounds. Apart from the small scratch on the head, I appear to not be in any loss of blood. Or at least not visibly.   
“Tell us what happened.” Porthos has knelt in front of me and his eyes, just like Athos’, appear filled with worry.  
Gulping at the reminder as to why exactly I got in this situation, my eyes dart back at the top of the hill. With Athos’ presence at my right, his warmth engulfing my frozen body, I can hardly concentrate sufficiently so to give an adequate and at the same time honest reply. ‘Keep to the truth as much as possible and save the details.’ That’s the golden rule in the art of lying, brought to me by my brothers.  
“I was running and tripped. Rolled down all the way here and passed out.” the monotonic voice is more fit for a robot than me, yet at present any emotion appears to be too exhausting.   
Looking at Aramis, who is eyeing me in a way only someone with medical knowledge can, presuming what a roll from up there can do to my body and how severe the internal damage may be if there is such, seems even more worried at my words.  
“Apart from the dislocated shoulder I believe I’m fine. I’m badly bruised, but nothing appears to be broken or cracked.”  
“Your back?”  
“Hurts like hell, but I’m sure it’s nothing worth worrying.”  
That appears to be the last drop in Athos’ cup as he harshly stands up and strides away. Looking after him with a semi perplexed demeanour, as to what caused him to snap like that, I miss to see Aramis’ movement. The shoulder, despite not being completely out of the socked, hurts badly enough with only the wind’s caress; when he grabs it and forcibly shoves it back into its place, the cry of pain resonates into the night as if someone just got killed. Now I know why Athos preferred to get away; if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t want to watch him in pain when I could hardly do anything to sooth it.  
“For fuck’s sake! You could have warned me, dammit!” once again flipping back to my foul language, and English for that manner, I receive some raised eyebrows from Porthos and D’Artagnan, and a bare glance from Aramis who now examines whether he got it right. Gritting my teeth in order to stop the pained howls from erupting as he keeps on repeatedly touching the wounded area, a series of bad words come to mind at this moment, yet I swallow them all back. ‘He’s helping your sorry ass. Be grateful!’  
“So?” Porthos’ appears even more eager than me to know what’s happening.  
“The shoulder will heal. I’m hoping you don’t have any internal damage, but we’ll see that soon enough. Any concussion? Nausea?”  
Shaking my head negatively, the Musketeer nods before beginning to gingerly check my body for any damage I might have missed to notice. His hands graze over my ribs, but apart from a hiss as they are indeed bruised, there’s no unbearable pain. My legs appear fine, as well as my other hand, so at least my mobility isn’t at risk. Then comes the back, which is a whole new story altogether. The second he begins to grope at my spine I whine and try to move away, thus putting myself in even more pain.   
“Stop! Stop, stop, stop! It hurts!” the hiss wheezes out of my lungs as the feeling of being split open from back to front leaves my head heavy and spinning, with a new set of tears ready to spill.  
“That’s not good, right?” Porthos’ gruff voice is laced with worry as he obviously expects to hear the worst from his friend.  
“It’s not good, but it’s not bad as well. You can move your limbs right?” I nod and to prove my point by shifting my legs and hands around with the price of a few low muttered curse words.   
Silence suddenly settles around us, allowing the nature’s sounds to once again reach my ears. Yet, unlike a few hours ago, they don’t sound like lullabies, but more like ominous portent. I may not have severed my mobility, but there’s something seriously wrong with my spine, meaning that for a long time I’ll be tied to a bed like a cripple, with Constance as my maid to feed me and change my cloths. The thought of being a liability and burden horrifies me to such an extent, that my heartbeat exhilarates and painfully drums against my bruised ribs. ‘One Bloody Merry right now will be sufficient to drawn your sorrow, hun!’ Bonny’s advice rings in my head, her usual chirping laughter following close by. Whatever the occasion or reason, her permanent solution is a nice Bloody Merry and some men to soothe the worry. For a first time ever since I got here I feel the physical absence of my friend. Being the dazzling sunshine, it’s Bonny that always cheers me up, helps me get through painful or difficult situations and never turns her back on me, not even when I act like a bitch. We have been stuck to each other for such long amount of time that I can’t tell apart where her thoughts end and mine begin; we are….were that close. And now, two months and so after I got shuffled here, I feel her absence so vividly as if a vital part of me is gone; half a heart, a lung, or even my right hand. Trying to stray from depressing thoughts in favour of keeping my sanity in check, all this time I ignored the obvious lack of something in my daily life – the security of always having someone by my side that’ll kick ass or cry with me, no matter what. Bonny is like my better half, the sister I never had but wanted, and that type of friend that leaves me wondering how I survived up until now without them.   
A hiccup rips from my chest and the tears flow down in waterfalls as I mourn my loss; a loss I kept on postponing for better times. Yet such times are long gone and probably will never return. Finding it futile to compose myself in the presence of these men, strangers up until a month ago and now appearing like brothers, I let all the accumulated pain and sorrow, disappointment and despair, hurt and heartbreak leave my system in what can only be described as a continuous cycle of wails and howls. The Musketeers don’t say anything or move far away. It’s the heavy bulk of a tall body that snaps me out of my banshee calls and I look to the side. Porthos has taken a sit next to me, his back pressed against the stone and the arm guard gone alongside the leather jacket. His linen shirt is thin enough so that I can see his dark skin underneath, yet without being too revealing. It’s an invitation I realise, for solace and a shoulder to cry on. With the turbulence between Athos and me, and his current absence, Aramis not being the type to sooth crying women, and D’Artagnan appearing just as out of his element like the medic, it’s up to the bear man to come and clench my thirst for physical comfort.   
Gently tugging me closer to him, careful not to startle me or touch a bruised place, he genuinely desires to comfort me, so I take him up on that. Shifting my body and throwing my feet over his, I come to almost sit in his lap, my head buried in his chest and my hands clutching his shirt for dear life. Startled for a second and the sudden show of affection, he tugs me closer and begins to carefully stroke my back, keeping away from any potential red points. No words are needed. Just his presence. The knowledge that someone is here for me, willing to comfort me when I need it the most. And right now that’s what I desperately crave. ‘You’re always playing the tough girl, Val! Let someone be your Superman for once. You deserve the rest.’ Bonny’s voice appears in my head, as those are the words she always tells me when I overdo myself, when the walls erected to protect my soft core begin to give in under the pressure of the world. And then she becomes my shield, the teddy bear I hug while crying my eyes out, the psychologist to hear out my endeavours and give an adequate opinion. She is the balm to my wounds, the topping to my cake, the light to my darkness. And now she’s gone and there’s nothing I can do to get her back. I can’t call her, can’t even write a letter and mail it, as at present it’s her great-great-great grandmother that’s being born most probably. ‘I’m utterly and irrevocably alone. Oh, what I wouldn’t to do hear her voice, to call her!’ yet as such thoughts and others orientated that way flood my mind, my choked sobs turn into a full-blown howl siren type of wail. It's a momentous event, yet by the stiffening of the body next to mine, I know it sounds a lot worse than in my head.   
Porthos hugs me even tighter, ignoring the bruised flesh, and his low baritone reaches my ears as he mumbles something soothing, sweet nothings, so that I can calm down, feel less alone and forgotten. Right now, with Bonny’s absence poisoning my soul, I cling to him the way I clang to her – like he’s the straw and I’m drowning. ‘He’s my teddy bear now.’ The realisation flashes in a second of calmness and makes a small smile tug at my lips, before new wave of tears and hysteria melts it away. Right now the Musketeer’s massive build, his obvious physical grounding is all that holds me sane. And as the world appears to be crumbling down around me, I know his strong arms will keep me rooted to the ground. ‘And yet how I wish it were someone else’s hands to hold me…’ a pair of blue eyes flash under me squeezed eyelids before a pang in my chest brings me back to that horrifying moment.

/*/*/*

“We need to go.” Aramis’ whisper, meant for Porthos’ ears only, wakes me up from my slumber.  
Nested against the Musketeer’s chest, with his hands wrapped around me protectively, I feel cosy and lethargic. It appears after all that crying I eventually grew tired and fell asleep on him. A small yawn escapes me before I can help myself, and the man under me chuckles.   
“Look who woke up from her snooze.” the rumbling of his voice has never made me feel so at peace as it does now.  
Just like the drop in temperature, so did my inner pain subside, until all that’s left now is a barely-there dull pulsation. My head feels heavy and a distinctive feeling of sore limbs stirs forward the thought of immense discomfort as soon as I move. At first reluctant to shift or let go, it’s another voice that literally has me bolting out of Porthos’ lap as if his touch burned my skin.  
“Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time.” there’s hinted steeliness in Athos’ voice that makes me flinch, as if his words are meant solely for me.  
A stolen look from over Porthos’ shoulder is enough to show me just how bad things are – the usually calm male, unshakable under any kind of difficulties now looks like he’d enjoy nothing more but to set the world on fire; or hit someone square in the face, hard, whichever comes first. And by the way his eyes narrow at Porthos’ hand wrapped around my middle so to keep me upright, I have a vague idea who may end on the receiving end of his wrath. ‘His goodness to me will drive a nail between himself and Athos.’   
“I can manage, Porthos, thank you.” Smiling weakly while pushing his hand away, the bear-man gets the hint.  
Stealing a look at his best friend and noting how his demeanour appears to be a lot more sour and bellicose than usual, he nods his thanks at me for dismissing him and walks to his horse.   
For a second I just stand there glued to the ground and try to predict where it will hurt the most in case of walking – my still pulsating back, my bruised bum, or my sore legs. A small stretch answers that question – the rear is in an acceptable condition, the legs will make it to the horse, yet my back is so stiff and unmoving that if I try to bend I’m afraid something will snap.   
“Are you okay?” Aramis completely ignores the look I give him and comes to me. “You paled suddenly.”  
It’s concern that makes him not pay any mind to his friend’s look, which is quite suggestive as to what he thinks about the proximity between us. ‘And what does that concern him?!’ a voice in me roars in anger. ‘I’m a free woman and I can be with whoever I want! He had his say in what’s to be made out of us.’ Returning my gaze to Aramis’ asking eyes, I smile and shake my head.  
“I’m fine.”  
He frowns, obviously not believing a word of it, yet doesn’t argue but leads me towards his horse. As a mare, she’ll be calmer with my presence and less inclined to gallop ahead and send my brains into oblivion of pain. Yet the hard part is about to come – getting on the horse. Gulping and for a first time realising just how high this mammal is, suddenly I find the urge to wipe my sweaty palms in my pants.   
“Help?”  
“It will be most welcomed.”   
Without looking at anyone, I grab the saddle and pray. Just close my eyes for a second and send a silent plea to whoever is listening that I don’t pass out from a humongous amount of pain. When Aramis’ hands gently envelop my waist, I try to collect all my wits. The second he pushes me up, I bite my lip and urge the still functioning muscles into pulling myself up. It feels like an eternity by the time I manage to sit sideways on the saddle and a thin layer of sweat has broken out over my forehead from the effort not to shout out in pain.   
The ride back to Paris is slow and uneventful. The men are strangely silent and tensed up, as if expecting something to blow up any moment. Thankfully nothing does and in an hour or so we are in front of Constance’s house. The second she sees the poor state I’m in, she covers her mouth with her hands yet the low whimper manages to pass though her blockade. I wince at that sound – she must’ve been driven mad with worry.  
“Time to get you down.” Porthos is about to get down of his horse but Athos beats him to it.  
In a heartbeat he stands next to Aramis’ mare and raises his hands to take me. For a second I wonder whether to decline the offer and take my chances jumping, yet at the look in his eyes I cave in and make a sign for Aramis to move his hand that serves as a barrier between my body and Athos’ awaiting arms.   
Regret and sorrow. That’s what has overtaken the blue irises I have come to love. Utter and unadulterated sadness that makes my heart clench for him. ‘What a fool I am; he may as well press a pistol to my head and I’ll most probably forgive him.’ And that realisation sends chills of horror running down my back. ‘This poses the question of who’s more broken – him or me?’ The question is stored away for later thought as I place my hands on his shoulders the second his envelop my waist. Pain is soon to come, yet I’m keen to not even whimper.   
“Easy Athos.” Aramis cautioning voice rings in the air almost like a warning.  
An eloquent look is thrown over my shoulder at his brother in arms yet I don’t manage to decipher it. Next thing I know pain tingles my nerve endings and finally I’m firmly stepping on the ground. Or so I think. The moment I try to move away from Athos’ arms, as this position resembles the one from earlier today which ended disastrously, my feet wobble underneath me and I incline dangerously to the side.  
“Allow me to take you in.” His voice in my ear sends tingles down my neck, yet I fight whatever he has such an effect on and straighten my shoulders.  
“I’ll pass. But thanks nonetheless.” With an equally low whisper I step to the side.  
Turning my back to him so that not to see the way he’ll look at me I smile at Constance who immediately comes to my side and hugs me.  
“Ouch! Ow, ow, ow! Bruised like a blueberry here!” The squeak and the small joke make the tension dispense.  
“I’m sorry! God, you look awful!” She smiles at me through the tears in her eyes.  
“Why thank you for pointing that one out!” Rolling my eyes in fake hurt, the mood immediately betters.  
The men behind me chuckle and Aramis comes down of his horse to say a few words about my condition, yet I do not listen to his recommendations as my eyes are raised up at the sky. The storm clouds from my dream, the same that appeared as mere fluff when I came round, are now littering the sky. ‘A storm’s brooding over our heads.’ the daunting feeling in my gut is indicative enough that the saying goes both ways this time.

/***/

Constance is the best nurse a woman can wish for – she’s carrying, dedicated, kind, tries to make you laugh and generally forget that your whole back has really acquired the tint of a blueberry. Left with no other choice but to lie continuously on my stomach and not strain my back muscles too much, I have adopted the bad habit of chipping away the paint from the wall whenever I get bored, which now leaves a huge ugly white blotch hidden behind one of the pillows.  
Furthermore while during the day I barely move as the painkillers I was prescribed pretty much numb my mind and kill any motivation whatsoever, during the night dreams plague my mind. In the first four or so days after the incident they were mostly images on Bonny and myself doing things together, talking, her giving me advice to keep on fighting and never back down, and one explicitly clean one, I quote, ‘Swipe that dumbass straight off his feet and show ‘im what he’s missing! You’re a sassy vixen for Cupid’s sake!’ The funny and at the same time scary thing is that she’d have really said something like that if she was here. Anyway, due to all those nights I spend with my best friend locked away in a corner of my mind where everything was calm and happy, more than once I woke up to a perplexed Constance looming over me and studying my face.  
“What?” I asked her one morning after she spent the better part of an hour looking at me intensely while I ate.  
“Are you having nightmares?” her doubtful expression made me put the spoon back into the bowl and place it on my lap.  
“No. Why?”  
“Because you keep on repeating these strange words over and over again… it’s English I believe. But I do not understand what they mean.”  
“Oh? I didn’t know I was talking in my sleep?”  
“You do this a lot recently.”  
“What was I saying? Could you repeat it?”  
“Something like a… uhh… I’m not sure if I’m saying it right…. ‘fon reception’?”  
The laughter that erupted from me is so strong that pain shoots throughout my body and leaves me wheezing.  
“Oh, dear Constance. You’ve just made my day.”   
Still laughing and clutching my stomach, I had to explain to her what phone reception meant. Her expression grew from confused to amazed in exceptional speed as her imagination went wild for sure. The rest of the day we spend talking about random things until eventually I decided to bear my soul as much as possible before her.   
Telling a woman like dear Constance about my infatuation with Athos turned out to be a half-baked move mostly due to the fact that after I shared why exactly I had to run around the forest and eventually trip and almost break my neck, I feared she’d go to the garrison and break Athos’. It took me some time to calm her down and shoo away the vehement look in her eyes; pity was next to come, but with that I could cope.   
Sharing with her what laid like a burden on my chest somehow allowed me to breathe easier than before. Keeping secrets from her felt like treachery as in my mind her kindness I repaid with lies and unapproachability. And once the dam was opened, everything poured out – my homesickness (I didn’t know I actually missed my old world until the realisation that my friends and family stayed there came round eventually), my cheap love infatuation with a man I know nothing of, my fear of being shunned. She listened patiently and in the end pulled me into a fierce hug that for a second I believed would shatter my still fragile bones.  
The bond we had before then suddenly became stronger. Constance was no longer simply my saviour and a kind woman who sheltered me; she became my best friend. Not a substitute for Bonny, as no one can ever take her place, but just as equally cherished and loved.   
Tranquillity set over the household for the next month, as I wasn’t allowed to pass the threshold of my room, let alone the door outside and thus no trouble came kicking in. Yet there were no Musketeers either, apart from Aramis who came to check up on me once and brought news that things back in the garrison were quite messy at present. The openness in his statement served mostly to excuse D’Artagnan’s absence and Athos’ silence. Yet the latter’s lack of appearance somehow allowed me to collect my thoughts up to the point where I somewhat understood his bizarre and harsh reaction back in that faithful day. Either way, neither me, Nor Constance were happy, but none shared her thoughts in the presence of the male… not that it was needed, he knew well enough what each felt towards his two brothers in arms, or at least had a vague idea.  
All the meanwhile, the sky was pouring down on Paris and flooding the streets, washing away the dust, grime and illnesses. Day could hardly be told apart from night, as the sky was constantly dark and gloomy and on most days rain never stopped falling from the welkin. In a way it all reminded me of a wound cut open and left to bleed – like all living things eventually its life-force will run out and it too will die like all of us. In a way, for an unknown reason, to me it felt like the begging of the end.


	5. Unstable ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really long, sorry guys. Also, sorry for making you wait so long, I don't know what I was thinking! Enjoy!

‘A woman should never be made to feel worthless or cheap. She should be neither underestimated, nor scrutinised when she makes a mistake. Most of all, a woman should never, ever, be told what she can and cannot do. That never ends well for the confronting party. We may be the softer sex, the gentle ones, the caring, the faint-hearted, the mild-tempered and the always forgiving but we are also the ones that can easily set the world on fire. It’s not a mere coincidence that only women were labelled witches – there’s something magical in us, something that holds power so much greater than the physical strength men boast around with. In the end of the day, after we have fed our men and cleaned them, after our homes are put back into order and the floors are wiped clean and the candle’s wick is blown out, we are the ones holding the strong hand. The man may split the deck and deal the cards, but we play the game better. We always have and always will.’

The article is unfinished, barely edited even, and is the last thing I wrote before getting rocket-launched back into a time where the only means of writing are quill and parchment. In my notebook, a treasure I didn’t dare browse through until now because of all the memories and secrets it holds, there are various begun and left unfinished stories, articles, thoughts and so on. It’s like my whole inner life is synthesised between its two hard covers. My fingers run over the texture of the front cover, flourished with random squiggles and funny sticky stuff I have hoarded with time and a strange feeling of ease washes over me. It’s as if all the negative vibes accumulated throughout the month I spend in bed and away from the outside world now get poured between the pages, soak there, and get locked away. ‘I haven’t written anything for so long. Not even a syllable. Were Bonny here, she’d have gasped in that theatrical manner of hers and faked a faint.’ The image makes me giggle and shake my head. Not once or twice I asked her why instead of a low-paid journalist she didn’t try her luck in acting. The answer was always the same, ‘I ain’t got the wits to do that. A lot of what acting demands is paying attention. And you know how that’s simply not my jam.’ Wit was never lacking with her, nor was sarcasm and self-irony. Yet only now do I see a fundamental error in her ways of thinking – she didn’t appreciate herself one bit. We, the women of the future, take the better part of what we have as given – the right to speak in the presence of men, the right to write our own correspondence, the right to walk around undisturbed by others and so much more. Yet it’s easy to point out the error in someone’s ways when your whole perspective gets shifted. ‘God, I’m getting deep here.’ Chuckling I once again look at the book in my hands, the place where all my thoughts get stored and written down, hidden from the world, yet realistic. Like in the old days, now I yearn to write down what I can hardly speak of, to share my experience here, to mock myself. On a subconscious level I realise that if my journal falls into the wrong hands, heresy and witchcraft will be the least of my problems, yet at this very moment the desire to put a body to my thoughts is so real and persistent that I pull a pen from my bag and open on a clean page. The tip of the pen, a work of art compared to the quill that’s used around here, touches the top end of the page. It’s a habit to chronicle whatever I write, no matter its significance. Yet how bizarre will it look when half the book bears the 2015 date, and suddenly one fancy-looking 1640 buts in? ‘Why not? Nothing bad can actually originate from this if no one knows of its existence.’ I should have known, after all the cinematic creations I’ve watched, that usually this thought is the milestone in the story. But maybe after a month of lazing around and doing nothing, I need something to stir me back into reality…

Dear me,   
Yes, the year is indeed 1640 and no, I’m not locked away in the asylum, nor have aliens meddled with my brain. It’s even better. I time-travelled my sorry ass back into good old yet rather smelly Paris under King Louis’ rule.   
It’s been what? Three months now? Probably more, yet resent physical damage has stripped me of my sense of time and place. Well, mostly time, cus it’s hard to forget you are inhabiting 17th century France, whereas your mind is still on a 21st-century mode. But, yeah. I’m cool I guess.   
…  
I have been saved and sheltered by Constance Bonacieux, my guardian angel, my shining star, my almighty current nurse that enjoys feeding me toad feet. Don’t ask why or how, just don’t… She’s my saviour and new best friend, since Bonny is completely lost to me now. I need her in order to survive. She looks after me and is mesmerized by my stories of a world far better than the one she’s currently made to live in.   
…  
I met a man. Four actually, but that’s of little importance, as only one voids me of my decent beauty sleep and has me in a never-ending spiral of joy and pain. I’m afraid this era is rubbing off on me – I’m getting melodramatic and slightly poetic here. Anyhow, I know I like him far more than any man from my past (or future, depending from which point you’re looking at it) can claim, yet he doesn’t appear to share my amours and that riles me up. It seems I’m stuck in a never ending cycle of ‘Kiss him!’ and ‘Smack that proud look straight off of his smug face!’ … Yeah, life hasn’t been boring recently, just utterly strange and unfathomable, but in a bearable qualities. I may love him, you know. Ever since getting tied to this damn bed (don’t ask) I’ve been thinking about those feelings I may or may not have for him. There were days I wanted to grow to hate him, despise him, fear him, anything but love him. But I can’t!!   
In some sense he reminds me of Charley, my dear baby brother, that pimp!; a broken hearted man, who erects all these walls around himself and shuns away whoever dares come near. Unlike Charles, though, he can and will have you at gun’s aim in no time, or worse – at sword’s. He’s dangerous and shows signs of instability whenever he’s pressed, yet somehow I manage to fix a decent explanation for everything. For fucking sake, he pressed a pistol to my chest and I forgave him!   
I’m either getting madder than a hatter, or am somewhat in love. God, I hate this feeling of hopelessness, and the weakness in my feet wherever I see him, how my heart thuds when he speaks, or how my body shudders when he touches me. I may as well sign my death-ticket here, ‘cus hell will freeze over and pigs will fly before he returns those feelings, yet am I not a hopeless fool who got her heart broken too many times? And haven’t I left a trail of broken hearts in my way? Hypocrisy, oh how bitter-sweet you are.   
That’s for now.  
PS: Dear me, never, ever!, run through a forest when you are emotionally unstable. Scratch that – never run around in a forest. Period.  
Kisses from the 16th century,  
etc. etc.  
Valeria (now Valary) Snow (now Bellanger)  
to-be-in-400-years-editor-of-magazine-Bliss

Footsteps and voices from the first floor quickly make me shove the book in my bag, pull away the beans on the floor and toss the last marker of my old life in the dusty space before quickly fixing everything. The thudding up the stairs and their pitiful creaking get louder, indicating the newcomers are male, and more than one for sure. Expecting them to pass my room by, I jump half a meter when the door gets flung open and men in uniform enter. With slightly widen eyes and eyebrows reaching my hairline, I gaze at the strangers as if each has three heads and breaths fire.  
“Mademoiselle Bellanger?” the one in the front barks, his voice sounding gruff and angry.  
Seconds later I come to know why as dear Constance elbows her way in here and comes to stand between me and the guards, her face flushed and fists clenched. Only now do I notice the red handprint on the male’s face which, if I pull my friend’s hand next to it, will match perfectly. A smug smile tugs at my lips, but I quickly hide it by frowning.  
“Yes. What can I help you with, Monsieur…?”  
“I’m Captain Lecroa, from the Cardinal’s Red Guard. I’m here to escort you to the palace.”  
The air gets stuck in my throat at his words. Escort me? ‘Tempting fate has its price, as usual…’ mentally rolling my eyes, I try to compose my rapidly beating heart and keep my voice even and calm while discreetly tugging my fuming friend behind me. For once I’m the level-headed one, which is admirable, yet worrying.  
“On whose behalf am I being summoned, if I may ask?”   
The defiance of simply obeying the orders startles the men but gives me the time to further compose myself – fear or screaming will do no good apart from attract unneeded attention.  
“Her Majesty, the Queen’s, Mademoiselle!!” Lecroa snarls and his bushy eyebrows knit in the middle of his forehead.  
“Why would the Queen send Red Guards to escort her?” Constance interferes and receives a bad look from the Captain.  
Turning my back to them and grabbing my friend by the shoulders, I quickly whisper in her ear while seemingly hugging her goodbye.  
“Stay calm and don’t do something I wouldn’t. I’ll be back soon.”   
Holding her gaze for another second before moving away, I fetch my cloak from the chair and follow the men down the stairs. Monsieur Bonacieux pokes his head out of his room and looks at me and the escorting party with a judging expression, his little eyes narrowing.  
None of the Guards take into consideration the fact that I’m still rather sore as one literally hurls me on the back of his horse, making me yelp at the sudden pain. Yet biting my tongue and keeping some pretty juicy words to myself, I allow them to take me away to the castle. ‘The Queen sending Red Guards to fetch me? There are too many unknowns in this equation.’ it’s pointless to wrack my brain, so I simply try to ignore the drizzling rain that has me soaked to the bone in no time, and the angry demeanour of the men send to fetch me.  
The palace is humongous. The external façade can barely prepare the visitor for what awaits on the inside – chandeliers twice my height hanging from the ceiling, marble and tapestry everywhere, heavy curtains all around. There is opulence wherever I look, and the fast pace with which the guards urge me forward doesn’t help my ogling one bit. Vaguely my mind registers the directions we take: first we go up a flight of stairs, then we make a few turns, then some pretty long corridors follow with various painting hanging between the big windows decorating them. Only when a set of double doors painted in nice champagne colour blocks our way, do I realise that while the exterior of the palace here is beyond posh and speaks of great wealth, I stand out like a cheap fish-girl snatched from behind the counter and dropped here. Using the few minutes of abeyance, my hands quickly smooth down the wrinkles of my skirt, pull at the corset and finally do some magic with my damp hair which at this point has curled and gotten fizzy, reminding a cloud. By the time I finish the fishtail braid and tie the end with a ribbon, the doors open and we are beckoned to continue. Yet the journey is short-lived as not even five metres ahead there is yet another pair of doors. Thankfully they open instantaneously and I’m ushered into a room.  
Awe. That’s the only thing that I’m able to feel the second I enter the private quarters of the Queen. It’s hard not to gape at all the various subtle hints of richness, which remarkably lack the frippery I was gawking at in the corridors. Mentally my mind finds this room a lot more appealing that anything I have seen thus far.   
Looking around, my eyes finally land on the Queen herself and for a second I stay frozen on the spot. A part of me wants to smile and nod in greeting, yet the newest edition, the one Constance sweated over to create, shrieks and ushers me to curtsey immediately. Finally in control of my body, I do the most graceful interpretation of a bow I can and hold my head lowered. Small jabs of pain tingle over the skin on my back, yet I bite back any hiss or yelp that may escape.  
“Rise.” the soft, song-like voice of Queen Anne almost has my heart skipping a beat.  
‘No wonder she’s claimed to be the most beautiful woman in the whole of France!’ Big, mild and calm looking blue eyes look at me with approachability uncanny for a Queen. Her lips are curved delicately in a small smile that makes her look so much younger than her 26 years.   
“Mademoiselle Bellanger?”   
Still unable to find my voice I simply nod, my hands fisted in my skirt. ‘Don’t act like a fool, goddammit! Be polite and humble!’ yet no matter how much my mental self tries to reason with my body, it’s of no use at present.  
Noting my bizarre behaviour and blaming it on either my bashful nature (psh! what a joke!) or the uneasiness caused by her own royal presence, she decides that the best course of action is to get straight to the point.  
“I have been informed that you work in one of the best flower shops. Monsieur Bluer is thrilled by how hard-working and devoted you are. And my ladies-in-waiting have been praising your skills to arrange and present flowers for some time now.”  
Blinking a few times, it’s as if a vail gets lifted from over me. Suddenly the slightly blurred edges of the room get sharper, the light is more pronounced and Her Majesty’s figure loses that almost unearthly hue, which reminds me of an angel rather than a human being.  
“I’m not in trouble?” are the first words to leave my mouth.  
The Queen’s laughter resonates in the vast room as her small frame shakes.  
“No, no. Oh good Lord, I’m afraid the Red Guards must have frightened you. You have my assurance that no harm awaits you.”  
“Then, if acceptable, would Her Majesty tell me why was my presence requested at such an unlikely time?” as usual my word choice is beyond adequate and mentally I wince, yet the woman before me simply smiles, no warning or offence appearing in her blue eyes.  
“Of course. I’m hosting a gathering in two weeks’ time and I need someone who… let’s say can visualise my ideas.” it’s obvious that whatever this idea is, it leaves a sense of thrill in Her Majesty, yet a whole different spectrum of emotion swirls in me – genuine dread.   
“I mean no offence to Her Majesty, yet allow me to enquire as to why exactly me? There are a lot more capable people in the palace that have spent years decorating your halls with flowers. A mere merchant girl can hardly do better.”  
A sudden mask of sadness and detachment shadows the woman’s soft features and for one awful second I fear I may have caused her offence. She appears so fragile and small in this humongous room that now, as the words are out and the hinted refusal is there, I feel like slapping myself across the face.   
“You are right. There are more than enough men that will do the job. The problem lies in that…” she looks at a loss of words, unsure as to how to phrase her worries without openly insulting someone.  
“You are reluctant to let men handle the decoration because they may not re-create your ideas accordingly?” helpfully I supply her with a whole authentic excuse.  
Nodding and once again resuming her glowing smile, a weight appears to have fallen off my chest as she begins pacing around and quite animatedly describing her idea.   
“I want something with a delicate hint of autumn, yet still holding the essence of summer. Something colourful, yet subtle enough to make it blend in.”  
“May I enquire as to what part of the day shall this gathering take place?”  
“At dawn and throughout the night. Is that of importance?” she stops in her step and looks at me, as if I just blurred something stupid.  
“It is, as most of the flowers open during the day and close for the night. If we cut them at noon, so that they are open, they’ll wither noticeably by the evening and most won’t make it past the night.”  
“I haven’t thought of that.”  
“It’s not for you to think of it. Yet that doesn’t minimise the choice, simply… dulls the colour variety. There any many pretty combinations that could be made with some rather extraordinary flora.”  
Intrigued by the idea, Anne nods and continues her pacing.  
“I plan it to be in the pavilion in the back, near the trees. I aim for that hearty atmosphere, you know?” and in that instant all the prejudice I had about taking her up on the offer melt away.  
It’s not so much about the good name I’ll have if I succeed in fulfilling her wishes, but because of how dearly she holds the idea, cradles it like a baby and appears intoxicated by the sheer speaking of it. For once in the face of an adult I see the gleefulness of a child, and that makes me smile.  
“Do you desire a fairy tale-like hint to it or prefer it simple and tidy?” at my genuine interest, Her Majesty blossoms like a flower seeing the rays of the sun after a long winter.  
“Will you take the offer then? At helping with the arrangements?”  
“It’s the Queen of France herself that asks of me to do so.” at that the spark in her lively eyes gets dulled, so I quickly add, “But even if it wasn’t a Royal assignment, I’d have taken it anyway. What you have planned sounds quite intriguing, and I was never the one to pass a challenge.”  
“Why?”  
“Because the idea you have is really good. And for once someone with royal blood aims for something that lacks richness and tardiness and desires simplicity. After all beauty is said to be in the simplest of things.”  
“Oh, come sit with me then! I have so much I’d like to discuss with someone as open-minded as you, Mademoiselle Bellanger.”  
“Please, Your Majesty, Valary is sufficient enough.”  
Taking a sit next to her on the stool by the bed, I ready myself for what can only be a journey though the Queen’s most private fantasies. Which, thankfully, I’ll enjoy greatly as nothing makes my day better than seeing someone’s inner child surface.  
Two hours later I bid my farewell to the Queen, with the promise of returning soon with samples and some ideas and head home. This time there’s no rough hurling on the back of a horse, or the gloomy faces of the Red Guards. To my amazement a Musketeer awaits me by the doors, the rains of a black horse in his hand. Offering me help to get on the saddle with a low tilt of his head, after securely seated he leads us down the still damp streets of Paris in silence as his whole attention is focused on making sure the horse won’t step wrongly or slip.   
Her Majesty wants a female-only backyard party. Well, she definitely didn’t phrase her desires with these words in particular, but the fancy talk has never been my strong suit. The general idea is that of a small circle of close ladies, all of the high circles of society and possibly their eldest daughters, packed under the pavilion. For me this will be the personification a major gossip booth, yet the desires are pure and genuine – despite wearing a crown and being of high-rise, Anne is still a woman who desires company and some excitement, unspoiled by men and their scrutinising glances. She yearns for cheerful speech and laugher, funny stories and openness between her guests. ‘Honestly, for once she simply wants to blend it. To be neither Her Majesty the Queen of France, nor the Spanish King’s sister. Simply Anne, a common woman with the simple desire of belonging.’ The sadness in this is that no matter how hard we try, in the end she’ll still be the Queen to whom everyone will bow down out of respect, and whisper behind her back out of spite.   
Mentally swapping different flower patterns and agreeing on ones in favour of others, I don’t realise how long we have travelled until the horse comes to a halt.   
“We have arrived, Mademoiselle.” The Musketeer says, his voice sounding somewhat distant, as if he too is lost in thought.  
Swiftly lowering myself down and jumping off the saddle, as right now there’s neither time nor desire to play ill and in pain, I thank him and rush into the house, eager to share what happened, and most probably calm down Constance.   
“Oh, Constance, you will never believe what just happened!” my voice rings in the house the second I throw the door open and rush into the living room.  
My friend is sitting around the big table, her hands placed on top of it and her delicate fingers laced. It takes her a second to realise my entrance, despite its flamboyance, before she jumps on her feet.  
“What’s happened?!” by the worry laced with fear, I can only guess what horrendous thoughts are coursing through her mind.   
Not being the one to enjoy tormenting my friends, I quickly supply her with everything that happened in the past two or so hours. By the time I’m finished, we are both exhilarated and eager, and not one or two suggestions on how to make the gathering even better come to life. Yet all this talkativeness has voided us of our senses of time. Without realising, it’s already time for dinner, and Constance bolts like a frightened rabbit at the sound of her husband’s approaching footsteps.  
“This is supposed to stay a secret.” I quickly whisper as I whisk past her with the dishes in my hand.  
“My lips are sealed.”   
From the corner of my eye I note how the small smile on her lips threatens to turn into a full-blown Cheshire grin. ‘Obviously women now are just as excited about parties as those in the future.’ 

/***/

The rain stops fully in two days, allowing the streets to dry out and for the flowers to once again have a peek at the sun’s rays. Returning to the flower shop is the first thing I do as soon as there’s no danger of slipping down the pavement and rolling like a sack of potatoes all the way to the garrison. Yes, by some sick coincidence the florists happens to be not far away from where the Musketeers spend their leisure time, which awakens in me mainly conflicted feelings.   
Ever since the incident with the rolling down the hill and the kiss, I haven’t seen even the brim of Athos’ hat, let alone his face. D’Artagnan is a constant supplier of information as he still sleeps under the same roof as me, yet for the better part of the occasions we get to be in a room alone, I don’t pry as to what he and his friends are doing. Or at least I try; most of the time the words ‘How’re things at the garrison?’ slip out of my mouth without my notice. Thankfully he’s kind enough not to get specific in his answers, yet the subtle hints that Athos’ been gloomier than usual and more peevish than acceptable always make something in me twist.   
I can’t decide whether it’s funny or down-right pitiful that despite his obvious refusal to have anything to do with me, I still stay attached to him. What I hoped and prayed to be a mild crush which will pass while I recover, appears to be evolving into something wholly different altogether. I refuse to claim I love him, as I do not even know him, yet the obvious amours I have are too lengthy to be a simple infatuation. ‘This has grown to be one pretty tangled mess.’  
The shop is in a rather pitiful state – most of the flowers have withered, others are barely raising their colourful heads from the flowerbeds. There are spider webs looming from the ceiling, on which I can easily hang myself, and dust with thickness of two fingers, enough to send me into an allergic comatose. Being a beautiful warm autumn-summer day, and with an exceptionally fresh air outside, I push the door and all the windows open and roll my sleeves. The first thing to do is create a mental list as to the sequence of things I have to do. Only then do things begin to be checked out. The shop and flowers must be brought back to life in time for Her Majesty’s gathering and I have to fix some samples for her to approve of. As usual, I chew more than I can swallow, yet that has stopped bothering me a long time ago. Now the trill of the challenge fuels my being like coffee used to once.   
“You look like you can use a hand or two.” A deep male voice startles me, making a yelp rip from my chest.  
Jumping on my feet, I almost bang my head in a low positioned shelf with various jars on it. Looking at the intruders, ready to shoo them away as today it’s not a sale day, I’m startled to see Porthos and Aramis at the entrance, each smiling as if just having shared a juicy secret.   
“You startled me!” Placing a hand over my thudding heart, I try to calm it down. “What brings you here?”  
“We were merely passing by and saw that the shop’s open. It’s an unlikely day for flowers to be sold.” Aramis looks around the still messy inside, noting the mud on the floor and the few bags of litter near him.   
“I’m tidying it back to life. I have been assigned with an important task and cannot let my workplace appear unkempt. It gives a bad name.”   
“It does look a little bit shaggy.” Porthos agrees and eyes a dangerously tilted vase, which threatens to tumble over any second now and wash his feet with the green scum that the water has turned into.  
“Do you need a hand?”   
It’s uncommon for a Musketeer to offer his service to the common people when the King’s safety is in no direct link with it. Yet both men appear rather bored, or bothered, I can’t decide which, and the appearance of something productive to do casts some light over their darkened features.  
“And since when do the King’s Musketeers do public service?” I jokingly tease while grabbing one huge pot and lifting it up with the intension of moving it towards the pile of things that will get thrown away.  
Before I know it the heavy bulk is removed from my hands and lifted in Porthos’, who appears unbothered by its weight.   
“Thanks. Put it over there with the bags.” begrudgingly he does as asked.  
“I can’t fathom what possibly can make the two of you come here to help, instead of lollygag in the garrison, as obviously you’re off duty today.” Curiosity is said to be my greatest drawback, yet neither of them appears offended.  
“Athos’ is in exceptionally bad mood today. We left him to cool down. Some training will do him good.” Aramis finally admits with a sigh and takes off his hat before going for the bags that need to be thrown away.   
“Yeah, but his opponents may disagree.” I add, as memories of how well he fights, and how merciless he can get flash before my eyes.  
“D’Artagnan needs the extra sparring.” Aramis appears completely unbothered by the prospect of Athos butchering their poor friend in the midst of a fight.  
“He’ll need a doctor afterwards.” Muttering under my breath, both men chuckle.  
With that the topic of their comrade’s exceptionally bad mood is closed, at least for now, and I give them some work. With the additional help things get checked out a lot faster and by noon we have done everything that can possibly be done in order for the shop to become more agreeable.  
“It looks nice.” Porthos, who as it turned out likes flowers a lot, now has that satisfied look on his face as his eyes scrutinise the inside. “A new paint will do as well, tho.”  
“I’ll keep that in mind. But for now I won’t push Monsieur Bluer’s patience and pouch.” patting him on the shoulder as I pass him by in my way towards the door, he snorts.  
“The shop does appear more eye-appealing under your care, Mademoiselle. You’ve done a great job.” as usual Aramis praises women with the same flair he woos them.  
“Your silver-tongue is worth envy, Monsieur Aramis.”  
“She got you there, mate.” Porthos’ deep laugh is contagious and soon the rest of us follow suit.  
Once we calm down, the men tip their hats in farewell and head for the exit. Looking after them, I fight the desire to further indulge in Athos’ state of mind, but the fear of them thinking me folly and desperate deeply affects my pride. However the obscurity serves as acid dripping over an open wound, so for once in my life I pick worry over pride.  
“Monsieur?” The sudden call makes both of them stop and turn around.   
Yet once having gained their full attention, no words come to mind and I look away, ashamed by my own imprudence.   
“Is he alright?” Finally a sentence rolls off my tongue and despite its impersonal sounding, I know they understand what I mean.  
Shearing a look between themselves, it’s Aramis who speaks.  
“Physically he’s alright. Yet on the inside…”  
“No one knows what happens there.” Mutters Porthos and scratches the side of his face.  
“May I indulge in being frank with you, Mademoiselle?” Aramis takes off his hat once again and presses it against his chest.  
The gesture, seemingly so simple and meaningless, for me speaks volumes – he’ll be honest to the point where he’ll be blunt, and from now is asking for my forgiveness if an offence is made. Gulping, I nod for him to continue.  
“Something has been seriously bothering him. He never shared what unfolded between you two back then, yet it’s obvious that your accident is in some way directly connected with a fallout beforehand, which he blames himself for.” Making a pause so that I can assimilate his words, Aramis looks at me with pleading eyes, seeking understatement. “He appears to bear an affection of some sorts, what exactly I can hardly tell, yet you are in no way insignificant to him, as he is not to you.”  
The heat from my stomach travels all the way up my chest, neck and then face, surely leaving a rosy-tinted trail.  
“And what do you suggest I do about it, Monsieur? What’s done is done and I hardly have any power over the matter.”  
“You have far greater influence than you suspect. Yet for now, we humbly ask of you to speak to him if that’s acceptable to you. Whatever he did-”  
“He didn’t do anything.”  
Tired of hearing the blame being shoved to him, I finally speak, my voice angry, yet not at them for bringing this up, but at me for being such a coward as to let things reach such heights.  
“He didn’t do anything wrong.” This time the whisper is barely audible and both men strain to hear my words. “I am the one who made a mistake and deserves the blame. I acted rashly and then couldn’t bear to face the outcome of my own stupidity. Now I greatly regret drawing back, as my absence seems to have caused Athos great discomfort.”  
“Whatever you did, ’moiselle, it sure ain’t that bad. Athos is hard to vex.” Porthos’ voice appears calm, soothing, and inwardly reminds me of how he kept me pressed to his body while I was crying my eyes out.   
“I crossed a line I shouldn’t have. But no matter that – I’ll take up your advice and speak with him. He deserves his peace of mind back.” Nodding and not daring to look either of them in the eyes, I miss the look they share.  
“Your assistance will be greatly valued, as at present everyone in the garrison is avoiding him as if he’s Death itself.”   
“I’ll have the care to reason with him, Monsieur. Now I thank you for your frankness and I hope you’ll not regret it once I meet with him.”  
“Whatever you said or did, it can’t be that bad.” Porthos’ hand clasps me on the shoulder and when I look up at him, he smiles encouragingly. “His bark is worse than his bite, remember that.”  
Another mute nod follows before the men bid their goodbyes and leave. Once again alone in the shop, a sudden feeling of being trapped washes over me, making the fine hairs on my hands stand up and the skin to bristle. ‘He’s not been himself ever since that day. He’s been blaming himself all this time, while I was safely tucked under the blankets and mulling over what to do. God, I’m turning into a heartless bitch! Why didn’t I think of how all this may affect him? Why did I assume he’ll be unbiased?’ my own thoughts suffocate me, so I quickly silence them by occupying my body with more chores.   
Two or so hours later I return home to Constance, who from the threshold already knows something’s bothering me.  
“You were so happy this morning? What happened?”  
Seated on the table next to me, her hands clasping mine, for once in my life I come face to face with the realisation that keeping my problems to myself will do no good to both sides. Breathing in deeply so to calm down the erratic beat of my heart, I tell her in lengths of what occurred in the shop today and what I plan to do.  
“Are you sure that approaching him is wise?” At my widened eyes and almost wild expression she quickly corrects herself. “I don’t mean to prolong this any further, but maybe the timing mustn’t be random. If he is as polar as they said, then your popping out of nowhere may serve to irritate him further.”  
There is a certain amount of truth and logic in that statement; an unexpected appearance in the wrong moment may serve to only worsen the case. Yet prolonging it further doesn’t act as ailment either.  
“I’ll think about it. For now let us focus on the flower arrangements.”  
With that the topic is shifted and another hour or so gets lost in chatter of how to make the most of the things we have. Yet no matter how much I try to delve into the conversation, to show as much enthusiasm as expected, my mind continuously returns to Athos. His eyes appear whenever I blink and the second my eyelids flutter shut, his face materialises so vividly before me that for a second I can almost sense his presence. Yet the mirage gets dispersed as soon as my eyes open. ‘I need to speak with him. If not in favour of his peace of mind, then for mine.’ The decision is made before I even have the time to dig out any arguments against it. It appears that I have grown tired of running from myself, of hiding under layers and layers that serve to only distance me further from what may turn out to be my new family, and the acceptance and admitting of it is strikingly liberating. 

/***/

The garrison is as imposing as it was the last time my feet carried me here; the huge gates are thrown wide open and there’s a nonstop circulation of people coming in and out, some on horses while other are on foot. A trait they all share, apart from the blue mantles and the funny hats, is the distress with which those who leave seem to be almost scurrying away. Some faces are bleached, others are redder than a tomato; some are utterly worried, others are probably blinded by fury. Perplexed and curious, I pass by those who have chosen to evacuate the building and let some steam off elsewhere. As I pass a group of Musketeers, a few sentences of their chatter reach my ears and almost make me stop dead in my track.  
“He’s gone completely mad!” One says with badly masked anger.  
“You’re just mad he kicked your arse.” Another counters, snickering.  
“He surely has something riling him up, that man. He’s not himself…”  
The rest stays unheard, as I can’t simply stop and eavesdrop so obviously. Instead, I continue forward and finally enter the circle in the middle. Under different circumstances I’d have searched for familiar faces in the table near the staircase, yet now my eyes are transfixed at the unfolding before me battle. With only his shirt on, and today can surely be classified as a chilly day, and his leather pants, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, Athos circles around his opponent with a rather worrying expression on his face; void of any emotion, more than usual, and just cold determination to take him down. The other man, with a larger build and two equally long swords in both hands, doesn’t appear bother the least by his fellow brother in arms’ cold resolve to take him out; the complete opposite – there’s a cruel smirk on his lips and in his eyes there’s mischief twinkling. ‘He is about to throw the bait. Psh! Does he believe Athos will buy his bullshit?’ while thinking that, and being still too far, I miss to hear what the words meant to rile him are, but to my amazement, the always composed Athos lungs forward with a battle cry and literally swings his sword with the intention of slicing his opponent open. ‘Well, it appears he just did!’ bewildered, I hardly find it in me to tear my eyes away from the two fighting men, barbarity now more prominent than gentlemanlike spar, and look for Aramis or Porthos, or D’Artagnan even. Spotting them near the fighting circle I quickly push my way to them and grab Porthos by the elbow, making him jump.  
“Good Lord! Mademoiselle!” his voice comes out like a low shriek that almost makes me laugh.   
The sound of steel clashing with steel stops me.   
“Mademoiselle Bellanger! What brings you here?” Aramis barely spears me a glance as his gaze stays glued to his duelling friend.  
“I came to talk with Athos.”   
“You picked the worst time possible. I’m afraid at present he’s not approachable the least.”   
Sighing and looking back at the fight, mentally I analyse the situation; the larger man has the advantage of physical strength and height, yet he lacks the agility of his opponent and his sharp wits. ‘Which appear to not be present today!’ my inner self shrieks in anger, as she can barely fathom the need to show such savageness in the very centre of the garrison. Thankfully before I can come up with any wild ideas, a gruff and underlined angry voice bellows from over the second floor.  
“Enough!”   
Every man tenses up at the sound of that voice, so I risk and steal a glance over my shoulder. It’s not much that I manage to see over the heads of the Musketeers behind me, yet unmistakably the man leaning on the rails is no one else but Captain Treville. The suddenly befallen uneasiness gets tenser as he strides down the steps, his feed thudding loudly, threateningly, allowing his unfavourable attitude to show clearly. He passes me by without a glance, for which I’m genuinely thankful and comes to stand between Athos and his opponent.  
“What’s the meaning of this, Athos?” His voice is somewhat steady, yet the put down in his words is so evident that even I feel anger course though me.   
Yet the Musketeer stays silent, his eyes and face void of any emotion, apart from the tightly clenched jaw.   
“All of you! Back to your places! The show’s over.” With the matter closed so swiftly and with no place for arguments, all men disperse like cattle.  
The four of us and Athos stay unmoving for as long as it takes the other to move away.   
“I would suggest against approaching him now. It may end badly.” Aramis whispers in my ear, hoping that the sudden movement won’t attract Athos’ attention to us.  
Unfortunately for him, that’s exactly what I’m aiming for. Shoving away all the prejudice, fear and shame, I push down the hood of my mantle and throw a look over my shoulder at the men behind me. A part of me knows that if it comes to it, they’ll guard me from their friend’s rage. Yet I hope it doesn’t come to it. ‘Please, don’t blow your top.’ Mentally hoping that the spar drained him from all his raw emotions, I look at Athos once again.  
“I believe the timing is just right.” With that I leave the safety of their close presence and near the still steaming male.  
Only within a few meters does he look at me, obviously expecting his friends as the look in his eyes is warning of what may come if they near too much. Yet once recognition settles in, his whole face changes – the anger melts away, the animosity dies out, and only melancholy is left in his deep blue eyes.  
“Hello.”  
Not the brightest beginning to a conversation, I know, yet I cannot come up with anything better under the given circumstances. The initial plan to play it cool and collected drowned the second I saw how distressed he is.   
“Hello.” His voice is gruff, almost hoarse, and it appears it startles him as well.  
Yet, as quickly as usual, all emotions get wiped off of his face and the nonchalant air of cold resolve surrounds him like armour.   
“I came to talk, if you’ll be willing to hear me out.” Today my honesty appears to be bordering bluntness, yet that doesn’t appear to irritate him.  
Merely rising an eyebrow my way, the only indication whatsoever that my words actually got registered in his brain, he quickly shelters his sword and the dagger, turns on his heel and leaves. I’m left gaping and staring at his back as he retreats. Tears sting my eyes and a lump suddenly blocks the access of air to my lungs. ‘Public humiliating really is this era’s thing.’ The humourless laugh that gets squished pass my lips serves as a slap against my cheek, successfully bringing me back to reality. In a few blinks the tears are gone, my vision clears, and the tightening in my throat eases. Steps come to a halt behind me and without needing to turn and see who it is, I speak.  
“Where is he going?” My voice comes out surprisingly composed and I realise that on a certain level I expected such retaliation.  
“To wash and then drink away the day. Treville has put him off duty for some time… you know, until he cools down.”  
Nodding my head and straightening my shoulders, I follow the path Athos took, not bothering to inform them of my further intentions. ‘What they do not know will not hurt them.’  
“I’ll try some other time then.” With that as a farewell, I leave.  
The next hour or so is spend in trailing Athos around the streets of Paris. He stops in a few taverns but doesn’t stay in them for long. If by some mean he discovered me tailing him, he doesn’t show it, but simply continuous the seemingly aimless walk around town.   
The boring pursue comes to an abrupt change when he takes a sharp turn to the right and disappears in a small rear street. At first reluctant to follow him there, as more than once I took notice at how he took large gulps from the bottle, the worry that something may happen to him in his poor state ushers me forward, personal sake forgotten.   
Peaking from behind the corner, I find the backstreet alley worryingly deserted. Apart from a few piles of trash and a stray cat running off, there’s no sign of Athos. ‘He couldn’t have possibly run the whole way to the other end!’ Without giving it much thought I quickly move ahead, completely forgetting what he taught me about the dangers lurking in the streets for a lone woman. With the corner of my eye I catch a sudden movement in the shadows and the glimmer of steel, but it’s far too late.  
Everything happens too fast for me to understand it, let alone prevent it. One second my senses alert me of immediate danger and the next I’m roughly tossed against a wall with a blade pressed to my throat and a hand clasped over my mouth. The yelp gets muffled, yet the followed groan, as my knee flies up and collides with my attackers’ groin doesn’t. His hands momentary loosen up and with a trained movement I push the dagger away, grab the man by the front and return the favour of throwing him against the wall face-first. He’s a lot heavier and sturdy than initially expected from a poor pickpocket, and not to mention the clothing – white shirt peaking from under the mantle, nice leather trousers and the boots. ‘Beggars don’t have such fancy shoes.’ Frowning and looking back up at the man who has covered his face with his hands now, as I may or may not have just broken his nose, groans and mumbles some unintelligible words. And then the truth dawns on me, making my skin pale and my heart skips a beat.  
“Athos?” The squeaky voice can barely be placed as my own, yet either way the attacker moves his hands from his face enough to give me a nasty look.  
The piercing blue eyes are so familiar to me that there’s no way I can mistake them for someone else’s.  
“Dear Lord! I’m so sorry! God, I didn’t mean to!” Quickly nearing him, with some effort I move his hands from his now bleeding face and examine the damage, all the meanwhile barely meeting his gaze. “I got scared! For God’s sake! You shouldn’t have done that! I thought you a rapist or a killer!”  
Speaking somehow sooths me as I gingerly touch the slightly split lip. Apart from that, and the small rivulet of blood running from his nose, which doesn’t’ appear broken, he’s fine. Once assured there’s no danger to his wellbeing (my mind refuses to acknowledge that a collision with a wall can hardly cause any mortal damage) from the worrying nurse I turn into the pissed off woman.  
“What the hell were you thinking, attacking me!?” the hissed yell thankfully doesn’t attract any attention from the random strangers passing us by not so far away.   
“You were following me.” Something in his voice makes me deter my gaze from the busy street and look him in the eyes.  
They appear at first glance cold, even angry, yet underneath that there’s that always present melancholy and the beginning of what can only be wonder. I know he’s not actually angry with me for tailing him, at least not that much, but is rather perplexed as to why I have been doing it. Avoiding the question in his eyes, I continue my tirade in hopes of buying myself some time to come up with a plausible excuse.  
“How could you do it!? You were the one training me for such situations, goddammit! Or you wanted to scare the daylight out of me?”   
Unbothered by how I’m gaining on and my temper gets flared by itself, he simply raises an eyebrow at me and tilts his chin in that characteristically stubborn manner of his, which oozes more nobility than childish pout.   
“Do you realise what Constance would do to you if you brought my unconscious body to her? A flying pan will be the least of your concerns! Or were you simply going to dump me here and let random men have their way with me?”  
While the first part receives an amused twinkle in his eyes and a smile, the second has that stern and warning mask clicking back in place. It somehow reassures me and strokes my ego to know that despite our recent turbulence, he’ll never leave me vulnerable in a backstreet alley.   
“I didn’t intend to hurt you.”  
“You pressed a dagger to my throat! Do you know how traumatising that is? For someone you care to press a weapon to your body and openly threaten your life? Did you at least think of how I may feel, or you just simply went with it?”  
The words come out before I can properly filter them and the implication there doesn’t stay unnoticed by Athos. His eyes slightly widen and the mask of boredom cracks, revealing the gentle man underneath the heavy armour. Looking away, as obviously shame washes over him, I want to simply hit him behind the head for his stupidity and then kiss him. ‘That didn’t end well the last time, or did you forget?’ Making a point to myself, I near him, handkerchief in hand. The further intrusion in his comfort zone has him stiffening and once again looking me dead in the eye.   
“I just want to clean your face. If you get out covered in blood, you’ll attract unneeded attention.” The previous vehemence in my voice has melted away.  
“I can do it myself.” The words are spoken harsh and involuntarily, making me take a step back, as if he rose a hand to hit me.   
Looking away and feeling silly and stupid for ever believing he’ll allow me to take care of him, I hand him over the snowy white handkerchief and put further distance between us. He takes the soft material, yet doesn’t pull it out of my grasp, so we stand there with merely a small cloth connecting us. My eyes can’t stay averted any longer, so I carefully follow our joined hands, then travel up his shoulder, neck, jaw, mouth and finally meet his eyes. There’s unmasked regret in them and a plea for forgiveness. A part of me wants to simply let go and turn around, give him my back and leave, yet doing that, protecting my pride in such a way in favour of his, will mean the end of it all.   
Finally it’s him that moves his eyes away and tugs at the handkerchief, but not enough to pull it out of my hand. Getting the subtle message, I once again near him and take a better hold of the white material. The proximity between us creates tension in my body, as every muscle contacts and if that’s not enough of a bother, it appears a horde of butterflies has taken residence in my stomach. And by how his body also stiffens and his jaw moves, I know he’s not being impartial as well. ‘Yet such reaction can be evoked by a completely different emotion.’ Reminding myself to keep my head far from cloud nine from now on, I gently pat at the bruised skin around his upper lip.  
“I’m sorry that I tossed you against the wall so harshly.” My voice is a low whisper than fans across his face.  
“I’m sorry I pressed a dagger to your throat.” His breath tickles my skin and I gulp, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.  
The sound of something moving from behind makes me jump forward in fear and look over my shoulder, almost expecting a gang of men armed with knives. Thankfully it’s only a stray cat nibbling at an old potato. Sighing and once again looking at the male, I find the proximity between us almost too alluring, the warmth of his body acting like a song to which mine responds. ‘Remember your place!’ A voice shouts in the back of my head and my eyes, up until now fixated on his lips, move up to his eyes. Athos appears paralyzed and obviously in what can only be distress. Forcing a smile on my lips and chasing away the nausea at his drawback, I continue to clean his face.  
“Don’t look so stressed out. I’m not going to kiss you again. I learned my lesson.” The tug of my lips definitely feels like a torture, yet trying to restore some normality between us is my most important task right now.  
At my words he stiffens before once again looking to the side for some time before completely closing his eyes and allowing me to marvel at the straight lines of his face unbothered. The more I gaze and memorise his outlines, the more I feel like he wasn’t born a commoner – there’s too much nobility in him, too much grace and mannerism for his upbringing to be of a merchant’s son. ‘It doesn’t matter what he used to be, as he no longer is that person.’  
When the final spot of blood and grime is brushed away and there’s no more apparent reason for me to prolong the closeness between us, I step back and my hand flops down next to my body. The silence that settles is tense, even bordering awkwardness, as many things stay unsaid between us, thus making the air hard to breathe.  
“I want to make amends with you Athos. If not for your own sake, then for mine.”   
My eyes are transfixed on the street crossing this one and the passing of people. It will prove to be so much easier to speak when I don’t have to meet his piercing and inquisitive eyes. Yet that doesn’t stop me from feeling them on me.   
“I don’t see the point to talk about it.” His voice holds that hint of controvert finality, yet I don’t waver.  
“So you mean to tell me you’re getting aggressive because it’s this time of the year? It’s a cycle-thing?” Still looking at the merchants not so far away, I do anything in my power not to break.  
“I have work to do.” He tries to walk pass me and make and exit, yet the dagger I managed to grab from his hand and have been subconsciously gripping up until this moment, now ends up pressed against his own throat, stopping him.  
‘Worst idea ever.’  
“I believe I’ll be short, so not to take that much of your precious time!” Snapping comes second in my rating, it appears.  
With a tired sigh I withdraw the dagger and hand it over, realising that while we press dangerous object against one another, we’ll just cram in the same spot.  
“I really do want to make things right between us. But I guess it takes two for that to happen.” Saddened by the development and obvious failure, I turn to leave.   
“Wait.” Almost out of the street, his voice reaches me.  
Looking over my shoulder, I find Athos standing where I left him, with his back pressed to the cold stone wall and eyes looking intensely at his shoes. ‘Do it. Be done with it!’ I come to stand before him once again, yet with more space between us as my own back now gets pressed against the opposite wall, eyes averted.  
“I didn’t mean to act harshly and so foolishly. I seriously do not know what possessed me in that moment so to cross the line, and I’m utterly sorry. I can neither explain it, nor ask of you to forgive me.” Peeking from under my eyelashes, I find him already looking, “But I want you to know that no blame falls on you for my accident. It was my stupidity and absentmindedness that made me trip.”  
Pregnant silence seems to wrap the whole street in its shuddering embrace. No more words come to my mind so I keep my lips tightly clammed together in order for any irrelevant information, like the fact that I’m bearing too great of affections towards him, to get blurred out. ‘The ball is in his field.’   
“How can you not hate me by now? You say it’s not my fault, yet if I had followed you, I’d have prevented it.” His voice is laced with self-loath that makes my heart drum in my chest.  
“There’s no way you could have known what’s to happen, Athos. Don’t blame yourself for things that were beyond your control.”  
I desperately want to near him, to wrap my hands around him and embrace him into a hug that’ll shelter him from the world. Right now he looks so defenceless, defeated and resigned that I fear any second he’ll simply crumble down in a heap.   
“I don’t blame you for anything, if that helps at all.” My whispered revelation makes him raise his head and look at me, fire burning in his eyes.  
“Why do you say that? Why do you act so forgiving when you should hate me?” The vehemence from earlier today seems to be once again on the menu, yet I wholeheartedly hope he’ll manage to put that impeccable control of his in work in time before my own flares up.  
“I just wanted you to know; to not burden yourself. And I don’t hate you because I have no reason to.”  
“No reason?!” His yell startles me and instinctively I step back. “You have all the reasons in the world to want my head, and yet you don’t! Why?!”  
For a second he reminds me of a cornered animal, confused and trapped, with no way out, without a clue what to do. His distress naturally results in violence, yet this is so uncharacteristic for him that staggers me.  
“Because if someone has to hate someone here, that should be you. I kissed you. I ruined everything we had. I then ran away and almost killed myself, making you feel guilty. And if that’s not enough for you, I stayed away, hiding like a child, while you had to wake up every day and carry the burden of believing you might have prevented this!! ” By the end I’m hissing at him, my hands balled into fist to prevent them from shaking. “So tell me then, why aren’t you hating me?”  
His silence is a like a slap against my skin. ‘Who told me he didn’t?’ I must have paled considerably as worry flashes in his eyes and he makes a move to near me. Rising my hand and stopping him, I lean against the wall and look away.  
“What fool I was to think you don’t hate me…” the mumble is mostly meant for my ears only.  
“Valary! Look at me! I do not hate you.” He’s now within hand’s reach, yet doesn’t dare come any closer.  
The look of worry on his face makes something in me wince and curl into a ball.   
“I said what I had to say. Now I’ll leave you alone.” Collecting the last remains of my power and pride, I make a move to scurry away, run even, yet his body blocks the way.  
“You said your share. Now allow me to say mine.” There’s no trace of the previous hot-headedness, just the natural composure and control, broken only by how his eyes appear more lively and glowing in the dim light of the alley.   
I’m unwilling to hear his words, as their harshness may wound me deeper than I can bear, yet it’s just fair to stand my ground and endure what can only be a torture for my soul and heart.  
“I’m married.”   
And the bomb gets dropped with a flare.   
Athos appears slightly ashamed that he blurred that out so recklessly and without any proper preparation, yet decides against giving me time for reaction. Not that I know what that’ll be.  
“I thought her dead for a long time, but now she’s back. And she’s dangerous to anyone who may pose an issue for her plans.”  
He pauses and looks me in the eyes, his filled with plea to understand, to not judge blindly; alas I can hardly put order to my haphazard thoughts, let alone scrutinize him for leading me on.  
“I… I still don’t quite… I…” with a sigh I avert my eyes from his sorry ones, as they only prove to shuffle my thoughts further. “May I be blunt, with the risk of becoming impudent?”  
“When have I had the power to stop you?” His amused remark makes me snort, the tension around us slightly dispersed.  
“You pushed me away because you still love her, or because she may in some way endanger me?” Wanting nothing but the honest, plain truth, I find myself entering his private space in favour of reading his features easier.  
At first only silence settles, as he appears to ponder the question and how to best answer it. Once his eyes look at me, I find the calculating gaze of man with sharp wits staring back from two deep azure pools. He appears to weigh his options, and the probable outcomes. Eventually looking away, his eyes stare at the busy street. The ruckus the merchants make reaches us clearly enough so that a few words could be made out here and there.  
“I no longer love her as I used to. She has changed so much that my wife’s former self appears to only exist in my mind. And yet she still clings to me – desires her vengeance and will stop in front of nothing in order to hurt me; even if that includes hurting innocent people while doing so.”  
“Don’t I have a say whether or not I want to put my life on the line?”   
He nods and lowers his head like a convict waiting for the axe to come falling down and chop his head off. A sudden desire to run my fingers through his messy hair takes over at that instance as the rebellious curls fall over his face and cast shadows over his eyes. Yet I restrain myself.  
“I come from a place where a woman fights for what she wants. With all due respect, unless you give me a specific and irrefutable reason to stay away from you, then I have no intention of backing down out of fear of your wacky ex-wife.”   
“Your bluntness borders insolence.” His voice is impartial, so I’m not sure whether my words offended or amused him.  
“That’s not a novelty, nor is it a passing event. I’m raised to be honest and share my views on matters concerning my personal wellbeing. I thought you’d appreciate my straightforwardness.”  
The corners of his lips tug upwards and he fights to refrain from actually smiling.   
“That I do. It’s a unique quality that makes you stand out. Yet I’m not sure you grasp the full extent of the situation – if she even senses there’s something between us, you’ll become a target. And I can’t bear for something bad to happen to you.”  
It’s my turn to smile. My hand rises up and cups his cheek, making him look at me and not stare at my muddy shoes. The distress and worry are trademarks by this point on his face, yet there’s a newly appeared colour, a blush!, tinting it as well.  
“I’m tougher than I look; nevertheless further lessons in self-defence will be greatly appreciated. As a start.” By now I’m grinning at him like a small child, a new feeling of inner nirvana and hope warming up my body.  
The smirk he’s been fighting up until now finally appears and he takes my hand in his, placing a chaste kiss on my knuckles and keeping it pressed to his lips for a few seconds more than acceptable. Not that I mind or something.  
“I’d like for you to think this through. If you regret your choice-” his low husky voice has my skin prickling.  
“When have I done that? Haven’t you by now realised that once my mind is settled, it’s pretty hard to change it?”  
“Still. Do this for me – think everything through. I’m a mere soldier with no land, no title and shabby wage.” It takes a great deal of self-control for him to admit this, as it pretty much works like a blow on his pride, yet those are factors I know from the beginning. “I can hardly provide for you, nor can I tie my life to yours in the eyes of God.”  
At the mention of marriage something in me stiffens and stands on guard. ‘People around here were expected to marry, you know! At least the honest ones…’ What a minor detail I neglected in my initial fantasies; unable, and honestly not thrilled, to become anyone’s wife, the next best is to be someone’s mistress. ‘Oh holy naked baby cherubs!’ The shock must be pretty obvious plain as Athos’ face falls and he averts his eyes, obviously preparing himself from my refusal.   
“One day I may tell you about the… my home and maybe then many things about my personality won’t stand so bizarre in your eyes. Like how, unlike most women in Paris, I’m not searching for a fine settlement or am rating my suitors by the size of their pouches.” Making him look me in the eyes so that he can see the truthfulness there, I fight back a dreamy sigh at how his irises have acquired a whole new shade of blue. “By nature I’m not a materialist; my charm is in my simplicity. I only want to be loved and not stripped out of my freedom. Anything else bears almost no significance. So if you’re worrying about not providing for me, then stop – I wasn’t going to agree on that either way.”  
“Nothing in you is simple.” He whispers.  
Any further response is silenced by the soft, initially feather-like touch of his lips. All of a sudden nothing else matters at all apart from his body being close to mine, his lips moving against mine, and his hands gripping and pulling me closer to him. Blissful delight dulls my other senses until it’s only Athos and his presence left to ground me.


	6. Fireflies

The early morning’s air howls down the streets and lifts leaves and rubbish from the ground in small tornadoes of dust and grime. In the distance the knocking of a shutter against a wall with its dull and ominous thud sounds like a dreadful warning, looming over the city of Paris and its residence. Not a living soul in sight crosses my way as I hurry down the street, the mantle tightly wrapped around my body and held in place by my right hand, while the left clutches a basket. The clinking of glass brings a small gleeful smile on my chilled face, as the blizzard around here is as merciless as everything else. It’s still too early in the morning for the merchants to bring out their stalls with goods, and the light fog doesn’t leave the impression of dispersing any time soon.  
With the deadline for Her Majesty’s gathering in a day and this moody weather to confuse the flowers, in the last moment I find myself doing what I hate to do the most – fix the shit that went down to hell; and that’s amplified by someone breathing down my neck. It will be unforgivable if I fail to deliver what’s been promised, yet currently it also appears impossible. ‘How am I supposed to rescue those sunflower crowns if there’s no fucking sun to fuel them? CPR them?! Christ, where did this coldness come from?’ The trek from Constance’s home to the flower shop has never appeared so long and tiring, yet I can easily blame it on two factors: one – it’s too early for my snoozing brain to actually get a grip and start functioning properly; and two – this frosty wind is seriously soaking through my layers of clothing and settles in my bones. The only thing I hate more than having to deal with last-minute fallouts is to do so during a cold weather.  
Finally seeing my safe heaven peaking behind the corner, I quicken my pace in hopes of also warming up my now completely frozen body. ‘It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey for crying out loud!’ fuming mentally, I tug the cloak tightly around my shaking frame, a futile attempt to return some life back to it.   
A lone figure stands before the door of the shop and appears to be waiting for someone. There isn’t much I can make out, as the person’s body is enveloped in a cloak and the broad-brimmed hat is hiding the face. Only a few steps away from the stranger, with a semi terrified and pissed expression on my face for sure, do I notice that the mantle is blue. ‘Only one layer of society is allowed to wear blue capes.’ A small smile graces my face as I come to stand next to the Musketeer.  
“What brings you here so early?” still husky with sleepiness, my voice comes out lower than anticipated.  
Thankfully, he’s close enough to hear me.  
“Captain Treville has given orders that we aid you in any way possible, concerning Her Majesty’s gathering. It appears that still applies.”  
From under the brim of the hat two dazzling blue eyes look at me with amusement and mirth, making a sweet shudder run down my spine. Quickly unlocking the door of the shop and ushering us inside, I close it with a soft click and put the basket away.  
“I do not understand why she burdens you with such trivialities. I can manage on my own.”   
“I don’t recall you being in the garden chasing bugs.” The retort makes a small giggle rush past my lips before I can help it.  
“Yes, I was busy arranging other matters. I regret missing that, though.”   
“Sure you do.” Athos’ breath tickles the back of my neck as his hands wrap around my middle and he pulls me closer to his broad chest.   
“I can’t say I wouldn’t have enjoyed watching you chase fireflies. That would’ve been a sight worth beholding, I’m sure.”  
It’s hard to further contain my laughter, so it naturally slips, making my shoulders shake. There’s no point looking behind to see the pout on the male’s face, as I can basically feel it. True to what he said, Her Majesty somehow managed to get the Musketeers involved in this, or at least a handful of them, once she realised that a lone person can hardly be in all places at once.   
The fireflies idea was mine; it started taking shape straight from day one, the second Queen Anne shared her desire for a cosy atmosphere (something hardly achievable given the current weather conditions, but we hope it’ll calm down in time for the gathering). It’s a rather simple concept of collecting various sizes of jars, plucking holes into the lids and then catching some of those blinking little munchkins and creating an animal-friendly and romantic setting. As usual, the simplest of ideas come to life under the hardest possible circumstances; frankly, I thought I’d have to fetch a butterfly landing net and prey that I spot and catch a few of those small twinkling bastards. To my utmost relief, this rather tedious and time-consuming task was ushered to the Musketeer “volunteers” – Athos, Porthos, Aramis, D’Artagnan (who wanted to bail but his brothers had another thing in mind) and a few young lads, who obviously hadn’t volunteered at all in the first place. Either way, after I quickly explained their task, and tried my best not to laugh at their expressions of utter shock and dread, I left to take care of a few more tasks throughout the city. Later that same evening, when I returned home, I found all four of them situated around Constance’s dinner table, speaking quite profoundly of the day’s duties and pretty much complaining like a bunch of hussies. The pile of jars was strikingly big I recall; enough to make me whistle and gain their attention. Anyway, they weren’t the least happy to be bug-hoarders the whole day, but duty was duty so I waved away their joking promises of revenge.   
“I seriously hope I’ll never be made to help in the preparation of any event whatsoever. I’m a soldier, not a bug-collector.”  
Turning around so that I can face him, my hands wrap around Athos’ neck and tug away his hat. The messy black curls fall freely down his face and cover his eyes. It’s a newly appeared habit, one I’m extremely fond of, to run my fingers through his locks and untangle them (respectably without pulling them straight out of his scalp). With a single gentle swipe the curls are removed from his line of sight and pushed backwards. His low content hum makes me smile and tip-toe so that I can place a chaste kiss over his lips. The soft, tender and sweet touch quickly grows heated as passion seeps through both our bodies. The desire I feel for him, the need to touch and kiss him, to have him, is unreal and unbearable. A day I have to settle with only a few stolen in-between kisses is a day of torture, as those small cherished treats further ignite a flame that can hardly be crushed with anything but equal element. Now, as my fingers fist into his hair due to my desperation to be next to him, to feel his warmth engulf me, this need acquires a physical body in the form of a sudden heaviness in the lower pits of my stomach. His hands wrap around my middle and he crushes my small frame against his broad chest, the hilt of his sword poking my side like a small warning that what we do is highly inappropriate as anyone can walk in on us at any given moment. Frankly, I can’s care less. A soft moan gets muffled as Athos’ hands travel from my waist down and stop at the small of my back. Even when passionate to show his affection, the Musketeer never forgets his manners, his mind never steers too far away from appropriate behaviour which speaks a lot about his self-control and not so much about mine, because as it is, were it up to me, I’d have him right here, right now, random walk-ins be damned and cursed!   
As if sensing my growing need for him, how my body arches to press against his, my hands tugging at his curls and my lips becoming more responsive and teasing than usual, Athos breaks the kiss. Resting his forehead against mine and panting, out of breath like myself, his gaze catches mine and holds it. The blue is so intense, almost cobalt of colour, that it makes me intake sharply and my hands rise on their own account to cup his face. He leans into my touch and slightly tilts his head to the side so to place a small kiss on my palm, not even for a second breaking eye contact.   
“You have the most beautiful eyes in the world.” The words appear to slip past his lips unintentionally as colour rises to his cheeks moments later and he looks away.  
It’s natural for me to refute and stave off such compliments, because ever since I stepped into the world of the adults, “the playground” as I nicknamed it, sweet-talk has sounded way too sugar-coated and factitious to my ears, which don’t take well bullshit. Yet when Athos speaks such nice things, unadulterated by any second thoughts or the desire to get in my pants, I can hardly battle the smile that tugs the corners of my lips upwards.   
“You should see them when I’m all fired up – the green becomes emerald and the amber can darken to black.” The happiness oozes off every pore in my being and makes me giddy.   
Athos’ eyes once again zero on mine and for a second he studies them intensely, as if contemplating whether what I said is even possible.  
“I am.” His low husky voice makes sweet shudders run down my spine.  
Before I know it, my head tilts back, I tip-toe and capture his soft lips in another kiss. Yet this one is short-lived as there is a monstrous amount of work to be done today and even more tomorrow, and the leisure time is scarce.   
“I need to feed the fireflies and arrange the flower crowns.” Murmuring against his skin, with my lips leaving a trail of butterfly pecks along his cheek, the desire to simply forget about my duties for the day becomes extremely tempting.   
“Then I shall not detain you from your work,” his stubble tickles my cheek as he whispers in my ear, “Her Majesty will be displeased if her florist lags behind schedule.”   
His hot breath against my earlobe has my trembling.  
It takes all my self-control to pull away, flash him a smile and turn around, heading for the counter.   
“Frankly, you are right.”  
“That shouldn’t surprise you.” Even without bothering to look, I know he has that smug half-grin on his face.  
“Her Majesty has been explicitly detailed in her desires, yet left me enough room to move around and chirp things up.” Ignoring the previous remark, I busy myself with the multiply jars filled with twinkling bugs.  
“One day I’ll really want to hear the story of where you come from. Such language is fairly uncommon to me and, I admit, intriguing.”   
Looking over my shoulder with a provocative glance, my eyes slightly narrow and lips part enough to appear tempting.  
“Am I a mystery to you?” The sexy, daring voice makes him raise an eyebrow my way and tilt his head to the side.  
“Not a complete one.” There’s a note in his voice that makes me tense slightly.  
Narrowed eyes, raised chin, square jaw and hands crossed over his chest. ‘The dominant and suspicious male is back into the game.’ Somehow what would have infuriated me a month ago, now makes me smile rather sadly. ‘How can I tell him everything without scaring him off? Is there even a way for him to stay by my side once he knows?’ Something in me, a wild animal that’s been caged for way too long in its lonely cell, now insists on being set free to claim what it foolishly believe is its. Yet Athos is not a pair of Jimmy Choo’s so to be jumped on and collected – he is a man, a Musketeer, bred and raised in a society that frowns upon women in general. What’s the chance of him swallowing a spoon as big as the truth? ‘Slim, yet there.’   
“One day, maybe.” The words come off sounding sad, almost resigned, completely masking the desire storming in me to spill it all out right away.  
Athos is not pleased the least, yet he better than most understands what’s like to keep secrets from others; I know there’s more to the story with his wife and his past than he initially lets on, yet I won’t be the one to squeeze it out of him. He knows it and that’s the only reason why he’s not trying to get me to talk. That, and because if he tries there’s a great possibility I may become aggressive and God only knows how that one will end.   
“In the back there is one huge tub filled with water. Can you please bring it here?”  
With a nod he leaves his hat on the counter behind me, his hand brushing my side tentatively before moving away. The gesture is simple – he’s sorry for bringing it up and apologises.   
“What have you filled this thing with?” His voice comes out a little bit heaved.  
“It’s a special potion to keep the flowers alive for longer. It’s not a permanent solution, but it will do.”   
The bouquets I have already prepared for tomorrow are now proudly standing on the racks, their colour combinations creating a subtle and amiable contrast against one another. It’s hard to say for sure, but I know Anne will like them – it’s what she envisioned: simplicity and beauty mixed with slight hints of opulence here and there; the glitter lining on some of the roses I managed to salvage and entwine with some greenery, the royal blue ribbons on some of the baskets that will be hanging from smartly hidden hooks, and so on.   
“Does it work?”   
“It appears so, yes.” I laugh and look at where he’s standing.  
In the still dim light coming from outside the scarce sun rays come bevelled and cast thick shadows over Athos’ features, sharper around his body and softer over his face as he’s halfway facing the door. In this instant he appears somehow lonely and distanced, that melancholic feeling around him suddenly becoming visible.   
In a few steps I melt away the distance between us and come to stand before him, my eyes meeting his. The blue appears somewhat dulled and not as vivid as before, making the wild part of me roar and yearn for nothing more but for the sparks of life to return. My hands come to rest on his chest and under all the layers of clothes I can feel his heart beating steadily. Traveling up, around his shoulders and locking behind his neck, my fingers play with the curls around his nape. By now that glazed look in his eyes has evaporated and he gazes at me with his usual daring gleam.   
“What must I do so that you can smile?” The mocked pout is quickly followed by a playful smile.  
Athos’ hands end up around my waist and he pulls me towards him.  
“Hmm… ” The hunger is back and the blue becomes denser.  
“Will a peck fix your mood?”   
The small frown in an indicative answer enough.  
“No? Then a small kiss?”   
He shakes his head.  
“Well, aren’t you whimsical today.” Muttering lowly, I grin and lean forward.  
Meeting me halfway, the kiss is consuming to the point where for a second I forget that we are still in the shop. His hands grip me harder while his lips press firmer against mine, coaxing them to part open. And I obligingly give myself to him. The feeling of being embraced so strongly, clutching almost, leaves me breathless. ‘It’s as if through me he stays standing.’ The thought is silly, I know, yet it gives me pleasure to know he cares enough to have me close. To grip me tight.   
Some time passes before we pull away and shortly after that he departs, as duty calls and he must check in the garrison. I send him with my eyes for as long as possible before returning to the cosiness of the shop. Now the room’s bathed in light and the flowers appear to be getting rejuvenated. A small smile tugs at my lips and in a moment of happiness a laugh, free and cheerful, erupts from my chest. For a few seconds I spin in the centre of the room, oblivious to the tasks awaiting me.

/***/

Before I know it noon has come and gone and my head hasn’t even once gotten the chance to stick out of the door; even now, as dusk settles over the welkin it is still buried in a sea of flowers, ribbons, glitter and fireflies. Since I am in shortage of time and man power, the work process is worryingly slow and rather insufficient. ‘With this rate I’ll need another week to get everything ready!’ Generally everything I need is here and halfway ready: the baskets for the flowers are here and have their bedding, some are even already decorated and sorted away; the jars with the fireflies (and the little flickers themselves) are supplied and nicely piled near one of the walls, but only half of them are painted; the bouquets are generally fixed, yet there are at least a dozen more to go, and not to mention that the wrapping is not enough so I’ll have to figure out a way to conceal the lack of material as a mere whim of art. The table pieces, which I was firmly against yet Her Majesty insisted on, are done and, surprisingly, turned out decent. The only drawback is that their plain bedding stands out like a sore thumb against the rich colourful hue of the hand-picked Michaelmas daisies and the Queen Anne’s Lace (yes, that appears to be their name, I kid you not!) … so basically those need to be rearranged somehow, sometime, and as unfortunate as it is, I have only two hands and just enough time to do only some of all those corrections. Already weary and with throbbing feet, I drag myself towards the counter and sit on top of it, not bothering to fake modesty as it’s already beginning to get deserted outside. A rich bouquet of snowballs proudly puffs itself on my right, capturing my tired gaze. The white literally illuminates the already dusky inside of the shop, the glow so soft and translucent that it would’ve been impossible to spot wasn’t it for the thousands of fireflies buzzing in the jars close by. The insects, as if sensing that their time of the day comes, begin to fly around and their bodies start to glow brighter and more intense.   
The jingle of the doorbell signalizes the entrance of someone and snaps me out of my spacing out.  
“I’m sorry, but it’s closed for today.” The rehearsed throughout the day polite dismissal slips past my lips immediately, even before I look at who has come at such an hour.  
“Well, it appears you are in need of our most earnest help, Mademoiselle.” Aramis’ dulcet voice fills the silence that’s been seated in the florists’ the whole day long.  
The speed with which my head snaps towards the door would’ve for sure snapped it from my neck, yet the only warning is quite a loud pop. The visitors either chuckle or, in Porthos’ case, laugh out loud. The space suddenly becomes claustrophobically small with Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan standing at the threshold, their large bodies taking most of the either way scarce free space.   
“Hey! What? Social service again?” Mocking them jokingly I jump off the counter and quickly fix my skirt.  
“We were close by and decided to stop and check on ‘ya.” Porthos eyes the many jars with fireflies nastily, as if with his mere gaze he wants to set them on fire.   
“Do you hold a grudge against those poor fireflies, Porthos?”   
Disregarding my smirk and the mirth in my words, the large bear of a man huffs and crosses his hands over his broad chest, successfully filling in even more space.   
“So… What can we help with?” D’Artagnan who was silent up until now pipes in, his eyes scanning the various flowers with badly masked apprehension.  
“Are you sure you’d prefer to be here painting jars rather than in the tavern down the corner? I heard their wine is quite good.”   
“Nonsense. We’ll gladly help with whatever we can.” The sweet smile Aramis flashes me would have made me giggle like a hormonally imbalanced teenager wasn’t it for Porthos’ snort and D’Artagnan’s snicker.   
My laughter echoes in the tiny space, bounces off the walls, slips past the jars and vibrates over the delicate petals of the flowers. Soon the men join in until a pleasant cacophony of mirth clogs the air.   
Wiping the corners of my eyes from the tears, after finally calming down and regaining my breath, I offer to take their hats and mantles to the back before proceeding with the task left at hand.   
“Which one of you can paint? It doesn’t need to be perfect, but I need a steady hand.”  
“That would be myself, Mademoiselle.” Aramis makes a small bow and tips an invisible hat my way, making me roll my eyes.  
“First – I’m glad to see prudency is not a trait of yours, Aramis. Second, I’d be forever grateful if you stop calling me mademoiselle at least for the time being. Val is perfectly fine.”   
All three of them chuckle at my remark before I lead their friend to the counter and explain what he has to do – paint the jars’ walls in transparent paint that acquires a nice hue whenever the fireflies fly close and cast their flickering yellow light. Tying an apron around his waist and looping the upper part over his head, I proceed to hand him the brush and the buckets of paint before leaving the smug Musketeer with the mountain of glass.   
“I ain’t painting jars, Val.” Porthos’ gruff warning makes me roll my eyes and shake my head.  
“Don’t worry, I have a different task for you.” The chair gets moved to the side and I indicate he takes a sit behind a smaller desk. “You will be putting the ready crows in the baskets and securing them in place with those wires.”  
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Doubtfully he takes a sit and eyes the various small twisted flowers.  
Ever since walking in here, Porthos has shown a strange and rather puzzling awe towards the flora stacked here – either he enjoys their colourful petals and bashful heads, or simply feels utterly perplexed about them. Either way his ever searching eyes take in everything, from the smallest of details, to the big picture which makes him perfect for such a tricky task as this one. It’s a bonus he has a strongly developed sense of gentleness and will easily handle the delicate wreaths.  
“Of course!” Patting his shoulder, next to come is D’Artagnan.  
Apprehensive and most probably unwilling to be here and deal with easily crushed items, I can’t help but sympathise with his unease and fidgetiness – even the smallest wrong move can get all the jars falling to the ground and shattering or the vases tumbling over and dirt getting everywhere.   
“You’ll be plucking away dead flowers, infected leaves, shrived petals and anything that appears either sickly or dead. Here,” a pair of gloves and scissors end up shoved in his hands, “start from over here and continue all the way to the end. Everything for tomorrow must be in perfect condition.”  
“And those up there?” pointing towards the racks with the scissors, I can already detect the hints of horror at the amount of work he’s facing.  
“No. Those I’ll take care of after tomorrow. Everything that’s on the floor or on the counters… just anything that looks fancy is for Her Majesty’s gathering.”  
The tired sigh and the followed yawn make me blush and cover my face with my hands. It’s been a long day filled with humongous amount of work and that’s finally having its toll on me, yet the workload is still too immense to leave for tomorrow.   
“Why don’t you go home and rest? We’ll do as much as me can here and-”   
“Nonsense. There’s still a long way to go. I cannot leave, nor rest for that matter, until I’m sure all is ready.”   
The smile I flash Aramis is tired, yet I’m as unyielding as usual so he reconciles with a nod and a worried glance.  
“I’ll be in the back if you need me.”   
“If she begins to snore should we wake her?” The whisper was not meant to reach my ears, yet it does, making me snort.  
“I do not snore!” The mutter gets muffled by the jingle of the curtain of beans as it falls back in place behind me.  
The table in the back is mostly long rather than wide, and currently hosts all the still unready flowers for Her Majesty’s gathering – from the smallest green leaves, to the heavy-crowned ones which cost a fortune and which I have been guarding like the apple of my eye. The sheaf of delicate and pungent Madonna Lilies (yes, that is truly their name; they are imported and highly rare species around here) with their shining white petals with delicate pinkish hues in their base are the main attraction of the gathering. The only other white pearl that dares throw shade on them is the Moonflower, with its iridescent and illuminating completely clear and innocent petals. Between them I have sorted out a dozen or so of oleanders, their bright fierily pink almost grotesquely standing out against the other two, yet successfully allowing me to tell them apart at the same time.   
***  
Ten or so bouquets are now done under the happy chatter of the men in the other room, their jokes making me snort or laugh not once or twice. The jingle of the doorbell and the followed steps, one hurried and patter-like and the other more heavy, indicate the appearance of two other visitors. For a second I wonder whether I should go there and shoo them away, yet soon enough Constance’s face peaks from behind the bean curtain, her sheepish smile making one of my own push away the mask of fatigue.   
“Hey there. You look tired.”   
The genuine worry makes me chuckle and I leave the delicate stem of the Moonflower on the table before turning around completely and facing my friend. Her hair is pulled in a braid that falls down her back just like mine, and allows her face to get nicely framed and uncovered. Yet the dark circles under her eyes show through her fair skin, making me frown.  
“This gathering is reflecting on all of us, isn’t it?” She comes to stand next to me.  
“Indeed it is. But it’s worth it. Tomorrow all will pass and we can finally have a few days of quality rest.”  
“I feel like I can sleep for a whole week!” Her exclamation is followed by a barely stifled yawn.  
“Make those two and I’m in.”   
“How much more do you have?” Nodding towards the bouquets behind me, I mentally calculate the approximate amount needed.  
“Maybe ten or so. In an hour I may be ready if I stop trying to cut my fingers off while cleaning the stems.”   
“Can this be done tomorrow? You need to rest.”  
“I’m afraid not. Everything must be ready by tomorrow so that it can get moved to the pavilion and arranged before nightfall. Not to mention I need to check on what the other decorators have done and if needed fix any mistakes or mishaps. Honestly, I’m reluctant to go there.”  
“Don’t be so grim. They may have done well.” The weak attempt to lift my spirit is admirable, yet futile.   
“I’m willing to bet that when I get there, I’ll have to remake and rearrange half the things.”   
“I’ll help then. Another set of hands will do the job faster.” Yet she eyes the flowers with the same apprehension D’Artagnan did – she sees the amount of work and not the delicate creations that could be made out of those few sprigs. ‘Few very expensive sprigs that is.’   
Squeezing her hands in mine, I flash her my most reassuring smile and usher her out.  
“No way. You get straight home and in bed. Tomorrow I’ll need you by my side in order not to strangle someone. At least one of us deserves to have a good night’s rest. I’ll be grumpy and on edge either way, so you go. Take the boys with you if they’re ready.” Lowering my voice to a hush as we enter earshot, I lace my hand with hers as we step out, “They seem to be in desperate need of rest as well. And D’Artagnan is hell bend on chopping off the crowns of my flowers. I fear for their entirety if he keeps on cutting like that.”  
The small giggles gain the attention of all the men in the room which now appears even smaller with Athos peering over Porthos’ shoulder and talking with Aramis at the same time. At our entrance, they all look at us, and not one or two sets of eyes plead with me to dismiss them for the night. As soft-hearted as I have grown to be towards them, for a second I consider calling it a night and just going home. But then I notice the bouquets that still need to be checked for fleas and dead leaves. ‘It will be a long night.’ The realisation is not a novelty, yet for a first time tonight I grasp its wholeness – the work is too much for a single person to handle, and yet they helped me enough.   
“C’mon. Get your hats and get out of here.” The words are spoken calmly with a small grateful smile on my lips.  
D’Artagnan is the first to bolt from his place amongst a sea of poppies, making me laugh and Aramis - to give him a bad look, making the youngster look away ashamed.  
“You’ve been on duty all day and now are helping me all night. Enough is enough. Go home and rest. Tomorrow is a big day and the chances are you’ll be assigned to watch over the gathering, so…” as no one makes a move to leave but simply stand and watch me, I roll my eyes, “Off you go. I’ll finish up as well and will leave.”  
“Are you sure you can manage with all these by yourself?” Pothos appears doubtful, taking in all the things that still need to be finished even after their help.  
Simply nodding and quickly fetching their stuff, I urge them out of the shop. Despite being reluctant to leave me behind, they all eventually bid their farewells and walk away, melting into the shadows of the street.  
“You know there’s no way you can finish here and get some rest.” It’s a statement rather than a question, yet I simply nod and smile at Athos.  
He’s leaning against the counter, his hat beside him and his feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded across his chest. Just like the others, he too appears to be lacking sleep as his eyes are adorned by dark circles and the usually shabby stubble now threatens to grow into a full-blown beard. Walking back inside and heading for the place D’Artagnan just vacated, I barely manage to hide my yawn with my hand.  
“I’ll manage.” Dismissing the topic swiftly, I pick up the scissors and prepare to begin trimming and plucking at the flowers.   
“Give me those.”   
Without waiting my response, Athos literally snatches the scissors with his right hand while the left one wraps around my middle and pulls me up.   
“Hey!” It’s futile to try and stop him, yet I wiggle against his hold, showing my discontent with his actions.   
“I’ll finish here.” His gaze zeroes on me, halting any further retaliation and leaving me captive to those blue pools, “You go and finish those ten or so bouquets.”  
A knowing, even victorious smirk tugs at his lips as he quotes my previous conversation with Constance with disturbing accuracy. The twinkle of mirth makes the ocean blue become even darker, deeper and more intense, as his usual apathy now makes place to his common stubbornness and leadership qualities. I’m a rebel by nature, no matter the year or place, yet either due to my current fatigue or the charming male specimen before me, I can’t find it in me to defy him so simply nod and move away.  
In the back the only light comes from a candle placed on a top shelf so that it’s flickering flame wouldn’t set on fire the flowers or wrapping paper. Yet as I take a sit on the small tripod and lean over the table on my elbows, head resting in my hands, I can’t help but find it making the atmosphere rather intimate and romantic; the air is filled with the scent of flowers and melted wax, while the candle’s light throws dancing shadows around the otherwise confined back room. The distant odour of soil and greenery, permanently soaked into the walls and floor, now gets unleashed under the warmth of the only light source. My gaze studies the shadows and their sporadic movements for a second more before I steer my attention back to the bouquets. The only sound to disturb the silence, apart from the rustling of leaves and paper, is the methodical click of the scissors.  
***  
It feels like an eternity later when I finally lay down the last flower arrangement into its vase. The table, piled with vegetation an hour ago, is now covered in leftovers or allocated leaves that I found disturbingly sick. Cleaning my working desk swiftly and putting away the tools, I stay oblivious to the figure that has creeped behind me. When suddenly a pair of hands snake around my waist and grip me, a yelp splits the silence before my elbows fly back and collide with the body behind me.  
“Uf! Feisty even when your guard is lowered.” Athos’ husky voice in my ear, now groggy after I knocked the air out of his lungs, manages to make my accelerated heartbeat calm down a little bit. “Maybe I trained you a bit too well.”   
His face gets buried in the crook of my neck, his warm breath tickling the sensitive skin and making it prickle.   
“You shouldn’t sneak up on me, you know that.” My voice sounds sleepy and somehow tempting at the same time as I turn my head to the side so to come face in face with the Musketeer.  
He appears just as tired as expected for someone who hasn’t slept properly for some time, yet there’s a flame in his eyes that stirs something within me – a deep primal desire to obtain, to have; a need I have been fighting for some time now whenever I come in close contact with the blue-eyed devil.   
“Are you done?” There’s only enough space for a needle to slip between us, yet I feel like it’s a whole abyss.  
“I am.” Before the last syllable slips past my lips as a hush, his mouth closes over mine, silencing any further vocal activities.  
His lips are warm and inviting, teasing and seeking to make me succumb. On a subconscious level I have done that a long time ago, yet he appears to enjoy reclaiming me each and every time like it’s the first. He insists. He devours. He conquers. And I respond accordingly.   
Somehow I end up pressed against the table, my body now facing his, yet it’s hard to tell where one starts and the other ends; we are so closely pressed to each other. With one hand pinning me against his chest and the other unravelling my braid, Athos appears to have completely forgotten his fatigue from a few moments ago. Instead he shows vehemence and passion matching the one of a well-rested racer waiting on the start line. My own fingers tug and pull at his dark curls, thread through them and eventually fist at his nape.  
Deepening the kiss and also tugging at my hair, Athos dominates over me in a way that has my whole body responding– my muscles tense up, my blood boils and my inner walls contract. A soft yelp gets muffled by his persistent lips as with a single movement he hoists me up and sits me on the edge of the table. Any further arguments about modesty, the late hour or the improper place get wiped clean out of my head as our tongues begin a sensual, slow dance against one another, exploring and teasing, playing and taming.   
When we finally part, both in desperate need of oxygen, Athos gently cups my left cheek and makes me look at him. His gaze, despite the passion there, holds those ever-present worry, anxiety and regret. ‘It’s as if he doesn’t trust himself whenever his control starts slipping…Does he dread what he may do if he stops holding back?’ My gaze softens and I mimic his action, cupping his face gently. I don’t remember smiling, yet the tugging of my lips upwards is now a fact as the skin feels stretched and irritated from the long muckle abuse. With swollen lips, ragged breathing and a fast beating heart, intoxication clashes with happiness.  
I want to urge him to ravage me here and now, to rip my dress open and take me, all the meanwhile the simplest of desire to have him kiss me, caress me and simply act as a barrier between myself and the world clogs my brain, making me feel dizzy.  
“I shouldn’t have-” Athos’ voice is a controlled and levelled whisper, yet his eyes give him away – there’s insecurity there.  
“But you did.” Cutting him off, unwilling to hear his self-destructive words, I grab him by the collar and gently tug him towards me.  
Obliging and melting away the distance between us, this time it’s me who initiates the kiss, soft and feathery at first, but soon growing into a passionate battle for dominance. His arms wrap around me, keeping me close and unable to move, as if fearing I may suddenly disperse into the thin air. This frantic urge to feel grounded is not unfamiliar to me, so I do my best to reassure him that I’m here. Once again my fingers thread through his hair, successfully embracing him at the same time.   
When his knuckles gently travel down my neck and collarbones, closely followed by his fingertips tracing the outlines of my shoulder, I shudder from the exquisite pleasure such a simple gesture evokes. The skin prickles and burns under his touch, a fire trail left behind that appears to seep through every pore and simultaneously enflame me from the inside out.  
“Valary…” He breathes out my name like a prayer.  
With foreheads resting against one another, our breaths mixing as we fight against the contraction of our sore lungs, I close my eyes for a second and soak up this very moment. It’s a habit I picked up ever since my early twenties – collect the good moments like they’re the most precious treasure, store them in a small corner of my mind and guard them zealously. Every encounter with Athos has been harvested and stacked away for later revisiting in times when he won’t be around, for one reason or another.   
“Athos.” Allured as if by a siren’s call, the Musketeer needs no further encouragement to once again capture and claim my now puffy lips.  
The candle’s flame pops and cracks, dispersing and shifting the shadows while two lost souls find reconciliation in each other’s arms; a person never thought to be compatible.   
“I should take you home.” He whispers in-between kisses.  
“Yes.”   
It takes us a few minutes until we manage to part, some more to exit the shop and double that amount to get me back home. The various stops along the way in the dark backstreet alleys, pressed between the cold stone wall and his warm body, with his lips on mine or down my neck are seconds of anticipation and pleasure, yet they come to an end as soon as they have begun. It’s like Athos suddenly comes back to his senses and shies away only for his control to slip a few streets further down the road. By the time we reach Constance’s house my lips are so sensitive and swollen from his kisses, my skin irritated pleasantly from his stubble, my hair a tangled mess from the numerous times he buried his fingers in it and my inner walls contracting with need that the simplest of actions, like standing upright, appears too difficult, requires too much concentration.   
At the front door Athos tips his hat in a silent farewell, a smirk on his lips, all the meanwhile not breaking eye contact with me – the daring look in those blue pools is my undoing every time. Yet fond of playing the modest mademoiselle, I simply smile and turn to leave. A step later I halt, rethink my decision, find it utterly idiotic, spin on my heels and throw my hands around Athos’ neck, kissing him deeply and passionately, as if there’s no tomorrow. The fact that he’s not startled or engrossed but rather returns it as if expecting it – with a dose of desperation and vehemence, urges me on for a second longer before I pull away.

/***/

“Should I do everything by myself?! Monsieur Bubon either move that pitiful excuse of an amphora out of my sight, or I swear to God I’ll roll it out of here!”   
Such and many more rich in wording and phrasing orders got hissed by me throughout the day. With mere hours until Her Majesty’s gathering takes place and even less until guests start pouring through the gates, I’m stressed beyond belief. Upon arriving here early this morning with the table pieces, the bouquets and the jars with fireflies, I found a complete mayhem awaiting me – nothing had been done apart from the eruption of the pavilion. Queen Anne summoned me by her side the second I got off the wagon and spoke long and worriedly about how nothing was going according to plan. Way too soon I found myself in desperate need of a strong drink, as everything she suspected could go wrong as the hours tickled away, actually did. The weather worsened at noon, bringing thick fog and cold gusts of wind, only to milden down two hours later and allow the sun to peak through the grey clouds and warm up the ground. After that some idiot decided to move the vases with the flowers without my concern, thus breaking three and cracking two, flowers and all forsaken. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, His Majesty came to observe our work, obviously allured by the ‘beehive activity’ as he put it. His presence further worsened the situation as all the renowned decorators began to accentuate their great contribution to this grand idea. Mere manners and a few stern looks from Captain Treville, with whom we got to know each other in the past few weeks as I was continuously guilty of stealing away his finest musketeers to do chores, were all that made me keep my mouth shut and not cuss like an old fisherman’s wife.   
The icing on the cake was the thunderstorm that appeared out of the blue three hours before the event started. The howling wind threatened to tumble over everything and crush the gentle cups of the flowers, yet I quickly organised all men available to gather them inside. Discipline and long years of experience with such last-minute changes were key qualities in those nerve-wracking minutes.   
Shaking my head and scrutinizing with my glare the man, Monsieur Bubon, as he takes away that retched excuse of a big vase away from my sight, I once again look at the now almost ready pavilion. All the hanging pots are in their places, dangling from smartly hidden cooks and gently swaying under the caress of the evening wind. The bouquets and vases are guarding every corner, the white and fierily pink contrasting nicely against the golden tones of the tent. The table pieces are positioned strategically so to not take up too much place while at the same time still be noticeable. There are no chairs or fancy couches to sit on but the ground is covered with thick, rich in needlework blankets, cushions depicting various sceneries and some of those minimalistic stools. And amongst all this, there are the jars with the fireflies tucked in corners and pockets, holes and baskets. The soft glow the insects provide, despite being sufficient so that the ladies wouldn’t feel frightened or distressed, is rather dim, so I took the privilege in adding a few candles with varying shape here and there, and blazing torches in key places so that the light could be casted accordingly, yet without being blinding or killing off the atmosphere.   
“A job well done, if I may say so.” A voice from behind me chuckles, making me turn around.  
Aramis tips his hat at me, his smile beaming, and looks around the pavilion, noticing every small aspect that most probably will stay unseen by the guests.  
“We’ll see what Her Majesty has to say…” Still on edge and rather mortified at the idea of Queen Anne disliking my upgrading of the initial idea, I skip to pay any heed to the glances the males behind me exchange.  
“Aren’t ya going to get changed?” Porthos’ peculiar question makes me snap out of my paranoia for a second and look at him with a raised eyebrow.  
“What for?”  
“Hasn’t Her Majesty informed you?” Athos’ calm baritone holds the barest hints of laughter, as if he’s about to tell a good joke. “You are to be attending the gathering as well.”  
Speechless and utterly undermined in strength, I feel tempted to faint just for the sake of lying down and mulling over this new piece of information. Instead of being a damsel in distress, though, I man up, breathe in deeply, hold my breath and then exhale, thus successfully calming the raging storm within me.  
“Are you entirely certain?” Without directing the question at anyone in particular, I continue to stare at the almost ready pavilion with unseeing eyes.  
“Definitely.” Porthos sounds a little bit too giddy in his affirmative answer.  
‘It’s like they can feel my unwillingness and unease! Do they suspect how much I despise attending such things? Nah. Probably just shooting in the dark, those dogs!’   
“How very distressing…” Muttering under my breath, I continue to inspect the last touch-ups in the decoration  
It’s the rustling of clothes and mumbled greetings that have me yet once again looking over my shoulder. Her Majesty the Queen of France stands behind me in a dress that I can hardly describe, as words for such utter outworldiness and beauty are scarce in my dictionary. If I have to, under threat of death, describe her appearance I’ll say she’s quite … fancy. Not too much frippery, yet not a commoner in her dressing and hair. The always present glow in her eyes and the newly appeared thrill add a tint of blush to her cheeks and for a second she reminds me of small child on Christmas Eve, eager to demolish the wrapping paper and see the gifts.   
“What a marvellous job! Oh, Valary, you’ve outdone yourself! It’s magnificent!” her voice wavers at the end as she takes in everything I put my strength, health and life in preserving throughout the day.   
Again reminding me of a youngling in her actions, she moves around, touches whatever catches her attention and inspects it with the eye of expert. By the time she comes back all smiling and literally glowing, I feel like fainting for real. The only thing preventing me is Athos’ hand on the small of my back that comforts and gives me strength above anything else. The second Her Majesty is close enough he takes a step back, retracts his hand and leaves me with the feeling of being naked.   
“I can hardly express my gratitude for a job well done, Valary!” Her glowing blue eyes capture mine and there I see an unquestionable gratitude, happiness and a smidgen of fear.  
“I take it Your Majesty accepts the small changes I dared to add?”   
A small nod, mostly a bob of her head as she’s too gleeful to watch her mannerism better, not that I mind, is her only answer. For once Queen Anne, if stripped out of her expensive and definitely heavy dress, appears to be a woman like all else – easily impressed and moved by the small details that build up the big picture. ‘In another word she could have been my best friend as well. We’d have clicked together perfectly.’ The realisation brings forward a feeling of nostalgia and sadness, yet those get quickly swiped away by euphoria. Unknowingly I too am now overtaken by the completeness, the feeling of a ‘job well done’ just like her.   
“That’s all I want to hear then.” Smiling and bowing my head, I fight back the urge to raise my fists in the air victoriously.  
“Would you do me the honour of attending tonight’s gathering as well? It would be such a shame if the woman that put all this together doesn’t get to see how people appreciate her hard work.”  
As expected, she did bring forward today’s agenda – make my life a living hell. Under different circumstances, such in which she isn’t a Queen and I’m not pretending to be someone else, I’d have declined as politely as possible and quickly skirted away under the pretext of some emergency. Yet Anne is no ordinary woman at whom I can wave my hand dismissively and fake an excuse – for the most part things are the other way around. Still the discomfort of being obliged to attend an event I’m sure will not be to my liking refrains me from agreeing immediately to the Queen’s invitation. ‘I can’t simply say no, thank you, I’ll pass!’ My heart drums in my ears and for one terrifying second I think I may faint or throw up, if not even both. Gulping and successfully swallowing the bile that rose in my throat, I try desperately to make up an excuse as Anne’s blue eyes are beginning to lose their warmth and light under my prolonged silence.  
“I… uh… It’s a great honour, Your Majesty. Yet I’m not prepared for such an event – neither do I have a dress, nor am I able to fashion my hair respectably. I’ll only ridicule myself and you and that’s not a thing I desire to inflict upon you on such a special evening.”  
Stepping forward, Anne grasps my hands in hers and squeezes them, the light from before once again illuminating her irises.  
“That’s a paltry obstacle, dear Valary. One of my ladies in waiting will not be able to attend tonight’s event. You have similar build so her dress will be able to fit you after some minor adjustments. Everything you may need is within reach in the palace.”   
At the sound of her jingly and ecstatic voice, even the coldest of hearts would yield under such strong offensive. For a first time in many years I find myself not so repulsed by the idea of backing down from an argument and compromise with my own comfort in favour of someone else’s happiness. If not for her broad smile, then it’s for Queen Anne’s kindness and the honour she bestowed upon me by allowing me to fulfil her dream gathering that I’ll do it. ‘It’s worth it.’  
“Then it will be my honour to accompany Your Majesty to tonight’s event.”   
Behind me a set of low chuckles echoes like a background. 

~*~

The popping of the fire from the torches lulls me as I sit in one of the corners, feet bend sideways under the lovely evening dress that was provided for me. Its rich green colour is interlaced with a nice earthy brown which nicely highlights and accentuates my hair, now curled and pulled into a half up-do. The heavy ringlets fall down my back like a curtain of liquefied chocolate, and not once or twice was I tempted to run my fingers through them with the risk of destroying the texture.   
Unfortunately, just like anticipated, the ladies Her Majesty has invited are what the high circles of the society usually represent – a mob of high-born, low educated, self-absorbed gadflies that see themselves as chosen by God or something. Many times I had to bite my tongue in order not to make a sarcastic remark or straightforwardly tell them to fuck off. Halfway through the night I come to the conclusion that I don’t possess the mental power, or self-control for that matter, to put up with those bitching ladies for indefinite amount of time.   
On the good side, one thing that made me refrain from collecting my skirts and leaving was the presence of the Musketeers as our personal guards. True, they are far away, hiding amongst the shadows of the trees so not to disturb the ladies and their chatter, yet their presence is still noticeable if you look closely enough. Most specifically a certain set of blue eyes is what I have been returning to repeatedly throughout the evening. Athos’ presence close by gives me the needed strength and courage to overcome my desire to tell those pompous high-born fools to go to hell. The calmness of his gaze, the small smirk of encouragement and the teasing of his dwelling eyes successfully keep my mind occupied long enough so to cool down after the exceptionally bad and disastrous conversations with the other women.  
Eventually I end up sitting on my own, isolated from the others by a small symbolic wall of pillows and flowers. The corner of solitude, apart from being quite comfy, provides a perfect angle towards where Athos stands on guard near the trunk of a big tree. It’s tempting to challenge him to a staring contest, yet somehow my clothing manages to strip me of my usual self-sufficiency and boldness, thus one hell of a persistent blush continues to make my cheeks and neck burn whenever I look at him. ‘That’s because I can swear he’s undressing me with his eyes!’ A voice squeaks in the back of my head and I can’t help but agree. His unflinching and intense gaze, the way his eyes narrow daringly and the smirk hiding in the corners of his lips all leave behind the feeling of being exposed.  
“Dear Valary, you look grim. Is this not to your liking?” Her Majesty appears to have breached my pillow wall and now comes to sit next to me, her dress pooling around her like a golden glittering lake.  
“I thoroughly like it, Your Majesty. It’s just that I’m not the type of person who enjoys such… events as whole. I prefer to be confined to my own company in favour of such colourful one.”   
Her small laugh holds no rebuke or offence and that eases my suddenly tensed muscles. Quite often now I catch myself forgetting that she’s a Queen and not a mere commoner with whom I can have a free conversation.   
“Don’t fret – I can see this is not exactly what you’re fashioned to do.” Her smile glows like a jewel on her fair face, “You pretty much prefer to arrange such things than attend them, am I right?”  
My small voiceless nod makes her giggle before grasping my hands in hers. She has delicate and long fingers, the type which are created to play the piano or do fine needlework; in comparison mine look shabby and calloused. ‘The hands of a labourer compared to those of a royalty. What a striking difference.’  
“I’m sorry that I cannot perform accordingly.” The low whisper leaves me before I can help myself and once out of the box, more words follow. “I really wished I could enjoy this, yet I find these women dull and selfish. Forgive my boldness, Your Majesty, it’s just that I’m not used to being so hypocritical so to pretend I feel things I don’t. ”   
Her azure blue irises appear to hold the same sadness I feel and she grips my hands harder as if showing me her silent support and agreement. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that the choice to become a Queen and marry was never hers to make; she was thrown into a foreign country and into a marriage she did not desire, yet found the strength and will to cope with it. Still, that doesn’t mean she feels in place or always happy. ‘Maybe we have in common more than I thought…’  
“You should know I always prefer to hear the harsh truth than be fed a beautiful lie. Your so called boldness is a quality I highly admire yet cannot afford to always implement myself. Still I’m grateful that you went out of your way to be here and endured a few long hours of court gossip for me. I am happy that you attended.”   
Smiling her way and retuning the reassuring squeeze, for a second I allow myself to steal a glance over her shoulder at the shadows of the trees. Athos is leaning casually against the trunk of the old chestnut, his broad-brimmed hat hiding most of his face, yet I notice the small smile there.   
“Go to him. I’m sure he’ll welcome some distraction from this tedious task.”  
It’s probably my widened eyes and the sudden withdrawal of blood from my face that give away the momentous mini heart attack. Anne simply laughs cheerfully, her shoulders shaking.  
“I may be your queen but I’m furthermost a woman. And I notice when one of my ladies is distracted by the presence of a man. Your eyes have been searching for his throughout the night. It wasn’t hard to guess.”  
A conspiratorial smirk stretches her full lips before she pats my hand and stands up to leave. Yet before turning around completely and departing, she appears to remember something and halts, halfway turned from me.   
“I find the job you did highly pleasing and sufficient. I’ll have in mind your unique qualities and unordinary ideas in the future. Working with you has proven to be a greater pleasure than anticipated, Mademoiselle Bellanger. Have a nice evening.”  
Without another word she strides gracefully away, leaving me gaping like a fish for a whole second as the words sink in and get assimilated. ‘Future? She wants me to go through this all over again?!’ Ironically, despite all the bumps on the road, I enjoyed doing this, putting together something that means so much to someone as gentle and kind as Her Majesty. So, naturally, the hint of further involvement in the near future leaves me ecstatic and jiffy, filled with a mixed sense of adrenalin and dread at such a challenge.   
Standing up and fixing my skirts, I give the pavilion a final look around, feeling a sense of proudness course through me at the sight of it. ‘We did a good job.’ With a smile on my lips I abandon my small pillow fortress and head down one of the lanes leading towards the palace, which by some coincidence passes near the tree Athos’ is leaning against. The night’s wind is still calm for this time of the year, yet holds the chilly trill of the fast-approaching winter. My soft steps echo against the gravel as I fight the instinct to literally grab my skirts (that’s not new on the show) and run towards Athos. ‘Manners, woman! This is the 17th century –respectable women do not simply run in the hands of men! And definitely do not distract Musketeers from their duty!!’ Like a shout in a void, the warning to pay better heed to my actions stays for the most unregistered by my brain. Still with equal and calm steps, as if I’m merely taking a walk to stretch my legs, the distance separating me from the blue-eyed devil melts away like snow. In no time I’m by his side, fighting back a lopsided grin.  
“Is it that awful there that you fled?”   
Rolling my eyes at his humour I throw a glance back towards the pavilion. It appears no one has noticed my departure or the fact that I have come to a stop near a tree. Finding it safe to resume the conversation and even hide behind the trunk of the chestnut, without so much as a glance I pick my skirt and take the few meters separating me from the thick shadows in a sprint. Once secured in the impenetrable by the sheer eye darkness, I let a sigh of relief and run my hands through my hair.  
“It’s even worse. Wasn’t it for the Queen, I’d have toddled away a long time ago; that is if I even managed to convince myself to come in the first place.”  
There’s no point in looking over my shoulder to see if he followed me here, as his presence behind my back makes my skin prickle. His breath waffs at my hair and the heat and strength radiating from him make me shudder.  
“A pity you have to leave then.” The proximity between us is anything but acceptable and I take great joy in seeing him slowly begin to allow himself to be drawn closer.  
“Ah, Her Majesty dismissed me for the night, indeed, but she didn’t say a thing about immediately vacating the premises of the palace. I was left believing that I’m allowed to walk around for a little bit.”  
Turning around so that I can face him, even the thickness of the shadows can’t prevent me from making out the outlines of his strong jaw, the straight nose or the treacherous smirk tugging at his lips.   
“But if you insist…”  
Before even finishing the sentence, Athos’ lips end up against mine, silencing me. Standing out in the open, protected by a sheer mantle, has left his body rather cold and the clash between my warm lips and his chilly ones makes me moan involuntarily. His response is a low grown before his hands wrap around my lower back, pulling me closer to his chest. Tempted to be naughty, yet reluctant to scare him off with any harsh actions, I tentatively push back and then take off his hat, allowing my fingers to run through his hair, untangling it.   
Pushing me back against the trunk of the tree, Athos takes his time exploring my mouth, his tongue dancing against mine, his teeth nibbling gently at my lower lip and his breath fanning across my face whenever he pulls away from a gulp of air. The short pauses for oxygen leave me dizzy and with wobbly feet, or that’s the male’s action doing that?, and so I have to grab his shoulder with one hand for support.   
“It’s inappropriate for a young and honest Mademoiselle such as yourself to walk around the grounds unsupervised and unprotected.” His low husky voice against my ear sends chills running down my spine.  
“I have a good teacher who has taught me how to defend myself. No man in his rightful mind will dare near me.” The cocky response makes him chuckle before gently biting the soft part of my ear.  
Gasping, mostly out of shock rather than pain, I barely have the time to bite my lip and prevent the escaping of a moan as his lips immediately move down and attack my neck. Yet the followed yelp and the wriggle are impossible to stop.  
“You’re cold.” I whine before angling his lips back towards mine and capturing then in a playful kiss.  
“Then warm me up.” The dare in his voice is evident.  
‘He thinks me shy! Assumes I’ll back down and walk away all red in the face and at the verge of fainting!!’ The laugh represents a small, mischievous giggle suffocated by his lips.  
“I’ll take great pleasure in doing so.” The words are hushed against his skin seconds before something in me changes.  
Up until now I lived up to the rule of no touching; invading his personal space is one thing, attacking his body - another. Yet now, as he has called this upon himself, I intend to make the most of it. The restrained sexual hunter in me is ready to play tag and will extract great pleasure in making a man such as the Musketeer succumb to his most primal desires. The idea of getting all inappropriate in public is tempting yet I know better than to test all his boundaries in a single night. So instead of going all out, I make small, teasing, testing steps.   
My lips stay locked against his, my tongue playfully darting out and challenging his while my hands roan freely up and down his front. The many layers of clothing prevent me from actually feeling his warm skin, from teasing it and exploring it, yet I make it tonight’s agenda of getting slightly closer.   
Methodically, even pedantically if you ask me, buttoned up and strapped, Athos appears to literally wear his clothes like as armour which keeps all the bad stuff locked inside and all the nosy people –kicked out. With the mantle tossed over one shoulder and the belt holding the sword looped around his middle, it’s no wonder people generally stray away from him – for one he looks like a man who’ll have no trouble in skinning you alive if he so much as wishes. ‘Let’s change that a little bit.’   
Still kissing him, and hopefully distracting his attention, my fingers begging to play with the buttons, twirling them and trying to see if it will take too much space and strength to undo them. Surprisingly the first two come off almost on their own accord and I take that as a sign. One hand continues unbuttoning his leather jacket while the other runs through his messy hair, allowing the silky curls to tickle my fingertips. A soft groan gets muffles against my now swallowed lips as this same hand travels down the back of his head and stops around his nape for a second, tugging at the curls there, before making a turn and ending over his throat. Under my fingertips I can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as I trace the stretched skin. Once I can touch his undershirt and trace the outlines of his collarbones, Athos takes a step back. His front is undone almost all the way down and now stays open, allowing me to glimpse at the thin linen shirt underneath and a fraction of his chest. Staring shamelessly for a whole second, only after assured I’ve made my intentions as clean as possible (in this case getting to explore some of his body) do I cast my eyes up and look at him. And what a sight he is to behold! Tussled hair, ragged breathing, slightly swollen lips and blazing eyes, all added to the view of his almost exposed chest and the dishevelled exterior.  
“You’ll be my undoing.” He pants, his voice so gruff and thick with emotion that almost appears unrecognisable.  
“You asked that I warm you up and that’s what I’m trying to do.”   
Despite not a single garment getting removed or undone, the fast lifting and falling of my chest, the messy hair and the same expression of lust written on my face, it’s no wonder Athos finds the need to leave a whole step between us so to collect himself.  
Silence has always been a major turn off, and currently leaves a feeling of uneasiness in me, so I become bold and melt away that distance between us yet refrain from touching his body. There’s enough space for a sheet of paper to slip unbothered between our bodies while still I get to feel the heat radiating from him. The fact that he doesn’t move away or warn me to step back acts as development in our relationship, yet he’s still rather distrustful towards himself and his own desires. Deciding to push him a little bit more and hoping he wouldn’t either snap or completely retract behind his walls, I inch a little bit closer.  
“Are you entirely warm now?” The huskiness in my own voice makes is sound seductive and at the same time provocative.  
Staying immobile, with only his eyes searching my face for something, once again Athos shows great self-control and discipline. By the way his predatory gaze continuously stopping on my lips and how he’s still out of breath I know he’s not unaffected or impartial to what is going on between us, to what I do to him. Yet work comes first – he’s on duty and it’s unacceptable for him to be getting distracted by a woman while supposedly guarding the Queen. And still I appear to be way too big of a temptation for him to simply pass.  
“No.”  
I’m surprised by his reply, which implies we are not done yet. Before getting a chance to comment on his shift of principles, his lips clash against mine in a passionate, dominating kiss, which wipes my mind clear of any thoughts that do not concern us at this very moment.   
This time my hands sneak under the leather jacket and fan over his upper chest, the fast beating of his heart drumming against my fingertips. Once again presses to the trunk of the tree, with its rough bark scratching my skin, I end up caged in Athos’ embrace.  
“You are bad for me.” Rasping out the second we pull apart, I find no need to answer that with words.  
A low purr vibrates against his neck as my lips leave a trail of small feathery kisses all the way from his jawline down the dip between his collarbones.   
“Maybe I am.” With a sense of satisfaction I note that the whisper makes him shudder.   
Athos has no time to put together a reply as the next thing he knows my lips conquer his, my teeth gently biting his bottom one. My tongue battles his while my hands sneak further under the first layer of defence yet do not breach the second. With the leather jacket coming undone and the cape and sword pushed to the side, I am free to explore more of his body. Yet I stop myself.  
The battle for dominance simmers down to a gentle lip lock until eventually we part. As fast as I unbuttoned him, I loop the buttons back into their wholes, leaving the top three undone.  
“Duty awaits and I’m distracting you.” Placing a final kiss over his lips, I put a fraction of distance between us.  
Yet his hands are still wrapped around my waist, keeping me close and preventing any further movement. Snaking mine around his neck and once again beginning to play with his hair, I gaze up at his eyes. The blue has gotten so dense that in this lack of light appears completely black.  
“I don’t want you to go.”  
The small whispered confession makes my heart clench and breath - hitch.   
“Neither do I. But your duty tonight lies here, with the Queen and her guests. I can wait.” Smiling so to show that I’m not offended by how things are, I feel tempted to pull him in for another kiss.  
One of his hands comes up and caresses my face gently, the action so genuine that no words are needed for me to understand the conveyed message. For once in his life, Athos would wish nothing more but for duty to not come first.  
Tip-toeing and placing a chaste kiss on his cheek, the stubble further tingling my lips, I finally break away from his hold and step back. Fixing my clothing and hair is easy, yet the traces left on my face are harder to mask – the swollen red lips, the irritated marks of his stubble left over my neck, the fire in my eyes, the blush on my cheeks.   
“I hope you are warmer now.”  
“I am.”  
Those are our parting words as I turn around and leave, my long auburn hair getting swayed by the cool night’s wind. A cricket sings its song somewhere in the grass, accompanied by the calls of an owl.


	7. Shreds of glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking ages to upload, guys. I hope there's still someone left reading this. Feel free to share your thoughts and impressions with me!

Pure whiteness has engulfed the dirty streets of Paris. The snowflakes, despite falling from the sky sparsely, sprinkle the pavement like salt. Parisians are huddled in their warm beds. Their biological clocks are soon to go off and toss them into this magical fairy tale that has overtaken the French capital. By now everything is covered in around five centimetres of snow, enough to blur the lines of this harsh world.   
The double window is ajar enough to let the cold morning air in, successfully chasing away the remains of the awful nightmare I had. In my nightgown only, still wrapped in the duvet yet too lazy to stand up and lit the fire, I enjoy the refreshing scent of the crisp air that enters my small quarters. A few snowflakes get blown in and end up spiralling down towards the wooden floor. Once they touch it, their structure disintegrates and in an eye blink they’re gone. Witnessing this closely, my mind, shaped by long years spend in the circles of literary moguls and books, immediately adjusts my situation to the short life-span of an unanimated object. Under different circumstances I’d have gotten seriously worried that my brain is getting somehow irradiated by this time of theatrical drama. It is the palpable dread caused by the nightmare that prevents any rational thoughts from overtaking the melancholy and worry.  
It was her – the faceless, dark-haired woman who swiftly managed to swap one time period for another and has threatened me numerous times. Yet even under the mercy of her dagger, my greatest discomfort lay within her words. ‘He’s mine, outlander. Athos will be mine forever. Stay away from him.’ It’s as if a broken tape is continuously playing on repeat in the back of my head, her sharp, whip-like voice dripping with odium. Shaking off the feeling of foreboding, I stand up from the bed and quickly get into my dress. ‘I must focus of something else. That’s just a nightmare – I shouldn’t let it get under my skin.’ It is easier said than done.   
Once down in the kitchen, for once I take it upon myself to fix the breakfast for the household and set the table. With at least an hour until Constance gets up, I take my time in looking through the cupboards, pulling ingredients out as I go.   
I have never praised myself with been a good cook; a decent one, yes – I can make scrambled eggs and pancakes, yet anything more complex is hardly going to be edible. So, deciding not to take any chances and risk putting someone in a hospital (not that there are any such things around here) I opt for a good old family recipe for fruity pancakes. Once the mixture is ready and the pan is heated, I put the kettle over the fireplace. The latter I managed to successfully lit up without bursting into flames myself; since the wonders of coffee aren’t around yet, I’d have to stick with morning tea.  
“What… what are you doing?” Constance voice snaps me out of my thought, in which I have been swirling for the past hour or so.  
“Breakfast.”   
Smiling over my shoulder at her and hoping the melancholy frown is gone, I urge her to take a sit on the table.  
“It smells fantastic. What is it?”   
Peering over my shoulder like a curious child, I playfully nudge her back with my elbow, as if wishing to hide the recipe written in the flour.  
“Pancakes. Simple, plain pancakes.”  
“They smell so good! What’s in them?”   
She makes a move to chip a small piece off, a crumb even, yet I playfully tap her hand with the spoon.  
“No touching until everything is ready.”  
“Fine.”   
Instead of standing idly by, she immediately gets to work – the table is set, plates and glasses are pulled out and tea is poured in generous amounts. As she does this with unfaltering flair, something canny to a person who finds joy in the domesticity of her own being, a calm silence settles between us, or at least on her side. Me, I want to shout out to the sky and confess to her all the aggravation and thoughts that are troubling me. Instead I mutely look after the pancakes and make sure nothing gets charred.  
It’s been two months since the nightmares became almost a nightly occurrence. At first I ignored them, believing it is fatigue and the abnormal amounts of stress I have been put under. It’s beyond me why the vision of a woman I have never met is haunting me, and even more unfathomable why she warms me away from Athos. Yet as days rolled away, a better part of which I spend around said male, his lips against mine, his hands wrapped around me, I began to wonder if what I believed to be a mere nightmare isn’t some kind of omen? What if my subconsciousness is warning me about Athos’ ex-wife having a lead on me? Involuntarily my mind spurs the image of the letter addressed to the Cardinal, written in a woman’s handwriting, claiming she saw me coming with a storm. ‘The woman in my dreams calls me an outlander. And she comments on my spectacular entry…. ’ From that point onward, worry was a permanent resident in my heart. The prospect of losing the man I have grown to adorn because of my past, something I have no control over, scares the living crap out of me.   
“Val, what is it? You look bothered?”   
Constance’s voice once again pulls me out of the darkest depths of my mind, successfully chasing away the sudden nausea.   
Yet before even having time to patch up a plausible excuse, Monsieur Bonacieux and D’Artagnan both enter the small kitchenette and take a sit, neither of them looking or speaking to the other. With a raised eyebrow at my friend I silently inquire as to what’s happening, to which she replies with a mute shake of her head.   
The breakfast, against my best hopes, passes rather awkwardly, soaking in intense silence as the two males ignore each other so vehemently that I swear if a needle had fallen at any given moment, it would have resonated throughout the house as if an elephant tumbled down the stairs. By the time we are done eating I can almost see Constance’s husband changing colour due to his resentment towards the Musketeer. Ironically, D’Artagnan appears if not unconcerned, then playing deluded and in favour ignores silently his landlord. If it wasn’t that I was sharing roof and food with both of them, I’d have laughed at the ridiculous situation wholeheartedly.   
The house gets vacated three minutes after the end of the rather unsuccessful meal. Grasping the possibility of no listeners within hearing range, Constance pins me down with her eyes and nods, indicating she’s listening.  
“It’s nothing, really. I’m just having some awful nightmares, that’s all.” Waving my hand dismissively, I barley stiffen a yawn.  
“I’ve noticed how tired you look, but I didn’t believe it to be bad dreams keeping you awake.”  
“Then what did you think it was?”   
Perplexed and a little amused, I note how a small blush appears on my friend’s face.  
“A certain male… you know- blue eyes, melancholic demeanour.” The teasing in her voice makes me gape for a whole second before bursting into laughter.  
“Oh, sweet heavens! I wish!”   
Our joined giggle and a few heaved in-between words continue to cackle throughout the house for a few more minutes until we manage to calm down.   
“I want to be frank with you, Constance, as you are my only advisor at present and I barely trust my judgement on this matter. My thoughts clash way too often so to make me feel certain.” The graveness in the statement immediately wipes the smile and jolliness off her face.  
“Of course. You can tell me anything!”  
Breathing in deeply and then exhaling, I give myself some time to put my thoughts in order. Yet no fixed pattern for construction of such confession comes to mind as to make the words sound less shocking. Having by this point adopted the inurement of simply going with it, I lick my dry lips and let everything that has been pressing me down pour out of my mouth like a waterfall. Word-vomit sounds more befitting.  
“I want to tell Athos the truth.”  
“Everything?” Constance’s eyes widen slightly and her lips thin out considerably as she’s pressing them tight enough to milk the blood out; as if not to let them speak on their own account and say things I may not like.  
“Everything – from start to finish.”  
A pregnant silence falls between us as she assimilates and wracks her brain around the idea; I can literally see the wheels in her head spinning as she already plans how may this endeavour end.  
“Why? I mean, it’s not like… well… you know, it’s not something you can share freely and expect people to accept it light-heartedly. I admit I had a rough time wrapping my mind around the idea of you being so… foreign.”   
“I feel like I’m being dishonest with him, Constance, feeding him one lie after another. There are so many things about me that stay unsaid, unquestioned and incomprehensible to him that each and every time I have to escape from a potentially dangerous situation with the ‘I’ll tell you some other time’ I feel like I’m putting a huge gaping void between us. A hole I cannot fill or build a bridge across.”   
Looking away, I fight back the suddenly appeared tears. It was never my plan to open up so much and share such a vast extent of my inner battles, of my uncertainty, insecurity, yet the desperate need to speak with someone urges me to continue even with the price of making my only accomplice withdraw from my confidence.   
“I… I… What I feel for him doesn’t allow my consciousness to keep on digging this gap between us. I prefer risking losing him because of the truth than because of a lie. Sooner or later he’ll get fed up with me being secretive and will simply walk away and I …. I …. I won’t survive that, Constance. I can’t, won’t.”   
Gripping my shaking hands that are laid across the table, she looks at me with understanding and compassioned eyes, the brown now twinkling due to her own barely contained tears. Squeezing even harder our joined fingers, I will myself to keep on speaking, to get all these suffocating troubles out so that I can once again breathe freely.  
“I’m petrified of losing him, Constance. The sheer thought of him walking away forever makes me feel ill to the bone. I can’t… I can’t bear thinking someone will take him away from me.”  
“No one will take him away from you, Valary! Athos in not some susceptible to manipulation child who gets easily impressed. He’s a resolute, noble man who has his eyes only for you. There’s no way his attention or amours are that fleeting or easy to deter.”  
“There is. She’s here Constance. His wife is here, in Paris.” At the vocal admittance of that fact, the same he confessed to me a few weeks ago, I find myself chocking back a sob.  
If a part of me believed it to be a fallacy, now the whole notion acquires a body, a sense of truthfulness that makes the blood in my veins freeze.   
“Even if so, what does that have to do with your relationship? From what I know he doesn’t have any feelings for her whatsoever. You shouldn’t feel threatened by a woman who has no hold over him.”  
“I’m afraid she does…” Murmuring the words as if their sole enunciation may bring that wretched woman here, I feel my whole body beginning to shake.  
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”   
It doesn’t take a genius to see that Constance is now getting reasonably worried, if not even frightened. Under different conditions, such that do not put my mental stability at stake, I’d have kept the next words buried within me, not desiring to burden her further. Yet my strength and durability have reached their thinning limit and so I unveil everything.  
I tell her about the nightmares, the way the woman in them threatens me, how she tries to chase me away from Athos, her words, the accusations. And then I point out the letter that appeared the day my secret almost got unravelled by the Musketeers, a small detail everyone forgot but me; how it was written by a woman’s hand and addressed to the Cardinal, for whom Milady was working until his death. Sharing all my theories, the patched together connections and the realised with time machinations, I suddenly feel how their truthfulness suffocates me past any bearable point. What I feared to speak out even in the company of myself, now, once admitted out loud shakes the firm ground beneath my feet and leaves me drowning in a sea of obscurity and constant fear.  
Constance patiently listens to my conjectures and with each and every word I see her face paling, her eyes widening and her lips pressing firmly against one another until she looks like she just bit into a really sour lemon. As soon as I’m done speaking, I try to steady my breathing and calm myself down, while in the meantime giving my only confidence time to process everything. ‘Months’ worth of brainstorming handed over to her in mere minutes. What was I thinking sharing everything so recklessly?! ’ Yet the deed is done and now I’m left waiting at the edge of my seat for her words, whatever they may be.  
“I… I don’t know what to tell you, I truthfully don’t. What you say sounds true, everything lines up, yet why would she even bother with trying to weaken you like this? I mean, if she wanted you forever gone, wouldn’t it be more reasonable and effective for the information to become known by everyone?”  
“She doesn’t have any evidence to defend her accusations. With Athos she wouldn’t need them – he knows there’s something strange about me, he just isn’t aware what exactly. Her words will click together like the pieces of a puzzle.”  
“The pieces of a what? Never mind. You are right – if she was to confide in him, then that’ll have a greater impact than sharing it with the public. For one, he’s sure to take her words for consideration, if not the honest truth. That alone will be enough to drive him away from you.”  
“Now you understand why I have been so restless these past few days. I’ve been wracking my brain day and night, going through all possible scenarios, and still… I just… I’m so afraid, Constance. ” My voice wavers as tears choke me, their small bodies rolling down my cheeks like raindrops.   
“Good heavens, Valary. Everything will be alright, you’ll see. Even if you tell him, Athos is a reasonable man, he’ll try to understand. He won’t push you away.”  
Having come to stand beside me, she pulls me into a hug, allowing all the accumulated with time tears to freely fall down, soaking her dress. No more words are left within me, no more willpower to be strong, so once again I allow myself to be weak, to be the one needing understanding and protection. Currently my anchor, the pillar of my foundations is Constance, the woman I once considered to be in need of advocacy and shielding from the world.

/***/

The plan to speak with Athos fails in its initial stages, as it appeared all four of the Musketeers have been send on a mission with no exact returning date. Captain Treville wasn’t the least happy to see me once again at the garrison, yet after hearing that I haven’t come to bother his men with more chores or bug-hunts, his more understanding and compassionate side came forward. Yet to the inquiring as to when the men may return, he was if not reluctant to pin-point an approximate date, then the very least dismissing. Claiming that it concerns matters of the crown and barely throwing crumbs like ‘a last-minute task’ and ‘a mission with great importance, thus a secret’ he sent me and Constance on our way, completely killing off any hope or spirit we had. Seeing ourselves with nothing productive to do, and allowing thoughts to come rushing back, we rolled our sleeves and began cleaning the house. Chores, tedious tasks up until recently, proved to be a save heaven in the minutes of deep inner turmoil and worry.   
Ironically one battle had been replaced for another, as the words mission and dangerous sent both of us in a state of continuous worry and hourly perambulation by the window; the dreading thought that something may happened to them, that someone may not return, didn’t allow me a decent sleep for the next three days. By that time I was a walking zombie, incapable of doing anything, of speaking or even reading. Eventually doctor Lemay was called on my behalf and after a quick examination prescribed me some sleeping pills. At first reluctant to take them as my faith in 17th century medicine is wavering, I guess Constance being driven by worry, sipped them in my tea, thus sending me into oblivion for quite some time. Thankfully no nightmares emerged from that dreamless bliss.

It’s been around a week since the Musketeers departed on their mission and not even a single letter has gotten through. From fear of what my own thoughts may do to me, my first instinct was to find myself a job – something, anything, to keep my mind away from the oppression of being left to the mercy of my speculations. Thankfully, as if sensing I need a distraction, Her Majesty send for me once again, like promised.   
Finding myself for a second time walking down the long and posh corridors of the Versailles palace, with many ladies in fancy dresses gossiping around every corner and Red Guards patrolling up and down, I can’t help but allow my eyes to take in everything and assimilate it like a man would. Ever since the late Cardinal left the seat of Minister vacant, Rochefort, that damn snake, has been crawling his way through each and every possible link in the palace. It appears he has succeeded in his task to usurp as much power as possible as red capes dominate over blue ones. Also, his word holds more significance to the King, his advices are taken more seriously, compared to anyone else’s. The list goes on and on. Ever since having the misfortune of glimpsing at his pellet of blue eyes, after seeing the coldness, hatred and malice there thoroughly hidden under the mask of humbleness and obedience, I knew he’s bad new through and through. ‘This is probably a bare glimpse, a scrap of something far bigger. No man that’s spend so many years as him in a Spanish prison, without being rescued by what he believed to be his people, will be so willing to serve a King who had forsaken him. There’s a masterplan behind all these schemes. If not something else, his imprisonment has taught him to be patient. He’ll wait until everything aligns perfectly and then he will land the deadly blow. The question is where is he aiming at?’ Yet knowing better than to share such presumptions I mutely walk down the corridor, ignoring all the women, court ladies and ladies in waiting mostly that follow me with their little evil eyes and whisper behind my back. ‘It’s somewhat of a comfort to know that people haven’t changed that much in the span of four centuries; the same filled with prejudice and spite little fleas.’   
Turning a corner and lost in my thoughts, I almost collide with someone. Swiftly making a step to the side, as it’s obvious whoever is walking so confidently wouldn’t so much as bother to make way for a mere peasant, I look up and prepare for a collision with one of the high-society scum. When a pair of ice-cold blue eyes clash against mine, so fair that they appear unreal, I gulp and mentally curse my luck.   
Immediately making a small courtesy, my prayers go to whoever is listening, begging for this man to simply walk away without a glance, or even worse – a comment. However, it appears today is not my lucky day. Instead of ignoring me in favour of going wherever he had been so hastily walking to, Cardinal Rochefort stays rooted on the spot and eyes me with distrust. Feeling explicitly the scrutinizing way his steel gaze studies me, I dare not look up at him in fear of snapping there and then. ‘This is the worst time ever to bring forward old habits. Be humble and mild. Like a lamb. You are a small, stupid, unsuspicious lamb. No need to draw attention, you are nothing special.’   
“Who are you?” His voice slashes at the silence like a whip, making me wince at the tone; there’s no hope for me to scurry away now.  
“Mademoiselle Bellanger, Your eminence.”   
Short and curt answers with as less information as possible usually do the trick at either irritating the higher members of society or at least boring them. Yet with this specimen standing in my way, with his fancy clothes and the sense of royalty in his gait, I suspect such tactic may backfire at me.  
“And what business do you have in the palace?”   
Ah, yes. Prying and distrusting, it’d have been wrong for him to simply go his way and let me be. Collecting all the self-control and power I possess and quickly revising everything I know about how to act around people such as him, I keep my head submissively bowed down and my voice humble, even shaky. The coerce to act my role appropriately has my insides twisting and coiling, as the prospect of presenting myself as a spineless creature in his eyes leaves my self-respect compromised. ‘Better that than giving him a reason to take interest. One snake at a time, thank you very much!’  
“H-her Majesty the Queen sent for me, Your eminence.” The stutter is an attempt to choke a growl, which I succeed in, hopefully.  
“And what business do you have with Her Majesty?”   
Obviously not keen to let the bone go, I feel stimulated to snap back by the condescending, even mocking shrill of his voice. ‘Watch your steps and keep your mannerism in check. I always wanted to be an actress- what better chance to prove myself that now?’  
“I.. I… She.. I…”  
“Get on with it.” The irritation is evident in the way his voice raises slightly and I fight back a victorious smirk.  
“I was summoned, Your Eminence. I do not know what Her Majesty wishes of me.” Babbling it out as if I’m at the verge of busting into tears, I fake another cough so to mask a small snort of laughter at the ridiculousness of my own voice.  
“Go on with it then. Wouldn’t want to let Her Majesty wait.” Efficiently dismissing me, I make another bow and scurry away with as normal pace as possible, without making it too obvious that I want to run away from him.  
Three corridors down I finally allow myself to breathe in deeply. Taking a few extra minutes to compose my shaken nerves and make sure my appearance is acceptable, I proceed down towards Her Majesty’s quarters.  
If I could glow, I would. Happy and proud beyond words for successfully keeping my biting tongue in check, I feel tempted to pat myself on shoulder for a job well done. ‘It’s not over yet – at any given moment you can walk on him again.’ My inner voice warns, yet she too grins like a fool.  
“I deserve a freaking Oscar for this.” Muttering under my breath, I make another turn and finally reach the first set of doors that lead to the Queen’s private rooms.   
Presumably having received an order to expect my appearance, the guards don’t make a move to stop me as I push open the huge doors and walk into the intermediate salon. There’re another set of men, again Red Guards I note with suspicion, guarding the entrance. Seeing me approaching confidently and without so much as a thought of stopping, they both step forward, preventing any further movement. ‘Well, the orders passed these two by, apparently.’ Rolling my eyes at their obvious gesture of hostility, I clear my throat and speak with as much peremptory of a voice as possible.  
“Her Majesty has sent for me, and is currently awaiting.”   
No more must be added and soon the last septum is removed from my way. Walking in the Queen’s bedroom, I find her sitting behind the boudoir and staring with glassy eyes at the reflexion in the mirror while one of her ladies in waiting does the final touches to her hair.  
“Your Majesty has summoned me?”   
Making a beautiful and low curtsey, which I mastered after numerous hours of practise, with a satisfaction I note how her expression immediately changes.  
The distanced, almost melancholic dullness in her baby blue eyes vanishes and happiness and warmth come forward. With a delicate nod the woman behind her is dismissed and with a mere glance, so are all the rest that have been dotting around the room like bees. The sound of hurried steps and the rustling of clothes, the opening and closing of doors and the low chattering echo after them. Once alone and away from prying ears, I allow my eyes to rise up and look at the Queen. She literally shines like a star with a huge grin on her face and urges me up and near her with a wave, rather clumsy and in high contrast with the trained gesture of a monarch. Now, in her jolly mood she once again turns into a young woman who is as easily affected by the passions of life and its beauty as everybody else.   
“Yes. I’m glad you responded so fast. I know with such weather outside, it must’ve been a real bother to come here.”   
An apologetic look takes over her soft features as if just now she realises that unlike her, I don’t have a carriage to drive me all the way to the palace.  
“It was no bother for me at all. I enjoyed the fresh air and the whiteness the snow provides.” Smiling and taking the invitation to sit down in the armchair near the fire, I angle my body so that I’m fully facing her.   
“It was still insensitive of me to ask for you in such unacceptable of time.”  
“Her Majesty should not regret her decision, as I enjoy both the change of scenery and her presence. Yet, I admit of being rather perplexed as to what you may wish of me. If it’s more flowers, I’m afraid the seasons’ change doesn’t allow any more bouquets to be made.”   
She laughs at my words and sits on the other armchair across of me. With mischief twinkling in her eyes and genuine rejoicing, something tells me that if she wishes for a room full of roses, I’ll find a damn way to fetch those thorny bastards even if that means having to gather the whole garrison to do so.   
“No, my dear friend, it’s not flower pieces I desire this time. I’m afraid this whim is rather more arbitrary and challenging.”   
“I believe nothing is more challenging than trying to find flowers in the middle of a winter as cold as this one, if Her Majesty allows me to say so.”   
To that brave comment, instead of scrutinizing me for my boldness, she chuckles and shakes her head, before agreeing that, indeed, seeking flowers right now is an impossible task.  
“I’d rather you act as my advisor this time” she begins after taking a sip from the golden chalice resting on the small wooden table, “and as usual I completely rely on your discretion and secrecy. What I’m about to share must not leave these four walls or be repeated in front of anybody. You must understand the crucial impact the leak of this information may have.”  
Speaking with such a serious voice, more as a Queen rather than a friend, she once again shoves me back into the reality; a place where the gap between us is far too great to even think of anything like true friendship. ‘Her trust is more than I can hope for.’  
“My lips are sealed, Your Majesty. Whatever you see fit to share with me, I’ll say no word of it to anyone.” Solemnly swearing, I notice the content in her eyes growing.  
“Good. Because I really need your help, and if you had declined, I don’t know to whom I’d have turned for advice.”   
The fact that she grasps the armrests as if her life depends on it makes me stand on the edge of my seat. What important information can she possible share with me, a mere commoner, and why? Mentally preparing myself for the bad news, since such secrecy and official addressing can only stand for something being about to go down, my jaw surely hits the floor upon her words.  
“I’m with a child.”  
Done. Once again. ‘Are news shared like this always? Just spit it out without any warning? Jeez, someone may have a heart attack!’  
“Uhm… Congratulations?”   
It’s obvious that her confession leaves me feeling rather awkward by the sheer way my mouth just doesn’t want to close. “Is His Majesty…?”  
“Yes, he is aware. Yet we still don’t want to make it public. As you know I haven’t been able to have a child for quite some years now, so we want to keep it a secret until it’s completely sure.”  
“You don’t want to jinx it?”  
She nods, not minding the odd choice of words, yet grasping their purport.  
“That’s completely understandable and I’m honoured to be let into your confidence on such a joyous of a matter, yet apart from my sincere congratulations I don’t see with what I can be of service.”  
“I need the Dauphin to have a unique room of his own. Not the usual colours and schemes, but something… extraordinary. Do you understand?”  
Speechless, I only have it in me to nod and continue listening silently.  
“I don’t want it to be posh or lifeless paint. I envision a child’s room filled with fairy-tale like drawings, a magical place he’ll feel is his own.”   
It’s obvious she still doesn’t have any exact idea of what this desired room is to look like, or what will be painted on the walls, let alone what enters the rather broad circle of ‘fairy-tale’ drawings. Just like last time, what she sees in her head as a mere image covered by the mist of formlessness, I envision with perfect clarity - a child’s room, befitting a royal heir.   
“I want you to help be put together a picture of this room and keep control over the process of its creation.”  
Bam! Again! ‘Dammit, I feel a stroke behind the corner any moment now!!’  
“I… you want me to… You want me to be in charge of the creation of the Dauphin’s room? Your Majesty bestows upon me great honour, yet I fear I may be unfit for such an important task.”  
The idea itself is quite dreadful. In truth, while I do enjoy putting together imaginative and fun interiors for rooms, the prospect of messing this up is far greater than the one concerning the previous task I was busied with.  
“I have seen you work. Your mind functioning in a different way; you think in colours and shapes; you see the world from a whole new innovative perspective. That’s why we chose you to be the supervisor and advisor for this task.”  
“We?”   
Obviously finding my condition of utter terror and mind block amusing, Anne smiles and even giggles before patting my hand reassuringly.  
“Of course. You didn’t think I’d ask you to do something with such great importance as this without the King’s approval?”  
“He approved of me?”   
“Oh, how disbelieved and prickly you are today! Of course, some persuasion and assurance was needed on my behalf, as well as the firmly expressed desire that you are the only person that is capable of doing it. In the end, His Majesty was left with no other option but to agree to at least give you a chance.”  
Another small giggle makes me sigh and lean back against the back of the chair, allowing it to envelop me in its chubby hug. The initial stupor has now gradually left me, yet the idea as whole, the prospect of this actually happening, leaves me feeling gloomy and rightfully so terrified.  
“May I speak freely?”  
“I’d like nothing more.”  
“I’m afraid Your Majesty has overestimated my abilities. A garden gathering is one thing, being in charge of the creation of the room of the future ruler of France is on a whole different scale. I’m incompetent, incapable, and damn right terrified of even thinking about accepting such an offer. There are hundreds of men with experience, who actually will know what they are doing. I… I’m just a simple flower girl with a wild imagination. I can’t possibly manage to please Their Majesties in any way. That borders if not with insanity, then impossibility.”  
Listening silently and studying my expression, Anne doesn’t appear a thud bit moved or worried by my speech. On the other hand, she sits and smiles like a woman who already knows I’ll cave in and do her biding, but first I just need to whine about it a little bit.  
“Oh, dear Valary. How can you degrade yourself so harshly is beyond me, yet I admire this trait of yours not to boost about your qualities. True, you lack experience in this line of work, yet your imagination contributes substantially. In truth you won’t personally do anything, apart from helping me put together the general outline of the room and simply make sure the men hired will do their job accordingly.”  
“That smug miniscule smirk in the right corner of your lips and the dimple above it speak that you have already firmly settled your mind that it will be me to do the job.”   
“Of course not! You have the option of declining my offer.”   
“I wholeheartedly doubt it; if that victorious look in your eyes is something to go by.”  
Sighing, yet already having accepted my fate that if I don’t die by the hands of Athos’ ex-wife or her hired men, then I’ll be hanged or decapitated for fucking up a royal task. Somehow being responsible for the future comfort of the Dauphin scares the living crap out of me a lot more than a murderous ghost from the past with problems in the upper department.   
“How mean and disrespectful you are, Valary!” Definitely not offended but rather exhilarated, Queen Anne tries in vain to fake a scold.  
“We both know I’ll cave in to her Majesty’s desires. I’ve proven to have no resistance whatsoever when it comes to your whims, but please do humour me. Allow me the privilege to grumble about it for a second or two.”  
“I shall.”  
Our laughter echoes in the room, muffling the cracking and popping of the fire.  
“I’ll gladly put my head on the loggerhead once again. Hopefully my escape will be just as successful as the previous one.”

/***/

Ten days since the four Musketeers went on their top secret mission and still haven’t returned. Ten days since I decided to be honest with Athos and as soon as he returns to tell him everything about me. Three days since Her Majesty threw the heavy cape of responsibility over my shoulders once again and handed me the uneasy task of making sure her child’s room will be perfect. Two days since Constance can’t stop herself from running to the garrison every two hours. One day since I discovered that if they do not return soon, or at least some kind of a note reaches us of their safety, it means that either they are dead, or worse – captured.  
Once again my sanity trips over the borders between stable and nuthouse and for the better or worse the battle is even for now. Yet with the rolling of days and no word arriving from the Musketeers, I feel my strength weakening drastically. Thankfully at least the weather betters considerably and melts away all the snow, thus allowing me to go out and start sketching and planning the drawings on the walls in the room of the Dauphin. Such a tedious task as research and picking through various ideas saves me whole days’ worth of brain wracking and worry, as the hours disappear between the pages of many story books and over various pieces of paper. Sketches, some more successful than others, get stored in a makeshift folder alongside other ideas and suggestions I’ll be showing the monarchs in a day.   
And while time somehow manages to get sucked in a blur of work and drawing, the nights, when sleep actually makes it to my bed, are invaded by nightmares far worse than that unknown woman’s presence. In them I see Athos dying in numerous ways, in various places, countless times. Such horrors take place in the span of seconds, those idle moments right on the border between awareness and sleep, and each and every time they jerk me away, covered in a thin layer of sweat, with tears streaming down my face and his name on my lips.   
Lacking sleep and inner peace, it’s a miracle how I manage to go with my days without literally flopping down unconscious on the pavement. And yet I do – I try my best to move around, to keep myself occupied, to think constantly of how the Dauphin’s room will look like, what’s suitable and what not, which fictional character is a good idea to add in the illustrations and which not. And it’s thanks to all this work and things I need to foresee and edit that I manage to survive the long hours of obscurity. Constance, on the other hand, isn’t that lucky at first. The time wouldn’t tickle by fast enough for her, the seconds dividing her from D’Artagnan’s return just wouldn’t get out of the way and that aggravated and saddened her to such an extent that even her husband noticed something was wrong with her. Lying about feeling sick and indisposed, I successfully threw dirt in his face. Unfortunately by the end of the first week she was already a shaking mess that sprinted to the window at the sound of boots or horses nearby. I was getting seriously worried when one day a miracle happened; getting called to the palace, Mousier Bonacieux went almost expecting to get some kind of promotion for his work for the previous Cardinal. In truth it happened that it was Constance that was getting a better job, if her previous role as hostess could be considered such – from a mere merchant’s wife to one of Her Majesty’s ladies in waiting. Appointed immediately she packed her stuff, kissed me goodbye and after promising to come back and check on me soon enough, she fled the house as if demons were chasing her.   
Now, as once again I walk down the seemingly same corridors in the palace, I believe the change to have been for the best; for once all the work definitely keeps her mind away from the still absent Musketeers.   
“Enter.” The reply comes upon me knocking on the door.  
Pushing it open and entering, I curtsey and rise with a smile. As expected, Their Majesties are expecting me in the King’s office. Anne smiles invitingly, urging me not to show discomfort while her husband shows little to no interest in what I may say or do. Constance, who had no clue up until now of me being involved in any way with the royal matters, is shocked and looks at me with widen eyes, almost mirroring Rochefort’s expression. The new Cardinal’s stupor is quick to pass and his guarded mask falls back in place, those same cold piercing eyes narrowing suspiciously. The initial little hope I had that he may not recognise me melts away like snow under the rays of the spring’s sun. ‘Ignore him and save yourself the headache.’   
“As requested, I have fixed some ideas and propositions for Your Majesties to look at. They are not many or that diverse as I thought it better to keep the initial design clean and simple, in favour of simplicity and also enough space being left for other probable decorations.” Speaking with as much respect and humbleness as possible without derogating my own self-esteem, I ignore that awful man’s constant gaze that appears to drill holes through me.  
“Show us.” The King’s interest appears to be peaked, yet his characteristic bored expression is still there.  
‘If by the end if it I don’t manage to get him excited, then it’s been a time wasted.’   
“Her Majesty shared she’d like me to research into fairy-tale characters which may be depicted on the walls, yet I hardly managed to find something suitable for the royal child. So, as an alternative I took the liberty of creating heroes which may entice a small kid without scaring it.”   
“Is it common for you to fall back on self-will with such important matters as the Dauphin’s quarters?”   
The remark makes me flinch and I dare throw a small glare at Rochefort, who appears unfazed the slightest bit. His sleek voice and seemingly good-natured question make me grit my teeth, as all the evil shines through his mask.  
“When I have been given the liberty to select amongst many and find nothing worthy of the importance of the Dauphin’s quarters, then yes, I take the liberty of creating something original and entertaining. The other alternative was for the child to spend a better part of his early years in a room filled with characters pulled out of horror stories, speaking of tortures and incest. And no one wants that.”  
Directing my cold and emotionless voice towards the proud male, my eyes steal glances at him underneath my eyelashes.   
“Furthermore, I created stories to go along with the characters. It’s all written down and edited for Their Majesties to read if they desire.”   
“How thoughtful.” Queen Anne’s comment makes my stiff facial muscles move in a small smile.  
The pages written from top to bottom in a slightly curved handwriting get placed next to the already laid down on the table drawings of the characters. In all honesty, I cheated a little by borrowing some ideas and concepts from future stories, but hopefully no one will notice the connections and overlapping when they finally get created by their respectable authors.   
“Of course they are still in infancy. Merely sketches which will be developed further if you approve of any of them.”  
A few minutes pass in silence that only gets disturbed by the rustling of the parchments of paper as the King and Queen look through the dozen drawings of different characters depicted in various places – there’s one taking place on the seaside, one in a cottage amidst a dense forest, on a beach, near a volcano and even a desert with castle, whose tall towers appear to pierce the welkin. They are really roughly outlined, mostly the general idea and the action of the main character is put down, maybe a detail or two or key places with the purpose of accentuating over an aspect that needs to be further studied, but nothing is too neat or specific. Halfway expecting a comment on how my drawing skills match those of the unborn child, a.k.a. pretty much none existent, I’m pleasantly surprised when I notice how a few pictures get selected out of the bunch and put aside. Once done, the royal pair looks up at me with their interest peaked and attention drawn, both silently urging me to continue.  
“I’m not sure whether I’m in my right to propose any further development concerning the walls at this point.”   
Approaching the subject as tactfully as possible, I hope not to anger someone with my continuous spur of ideas and suggestions. After all it’s their child and all the decisions regarding his room must be theirs, not mine. If I push too hard, show too much eagerness or try to inculcate only what I envision, I risk offending and even angering the King.   
“You have begun already, so better be off with it.” The statement is said with a smile, yet still I feel unsure as how to proceed.  
‘Is that a hint to shut up? Or is he really urging me on?’ Stealing a glance at the Queen, she simply nods, her small smile threatening to grow into a grin at the sight of the fruitful progress I’ve made in the span of only a few days.  
“Well… I propose that the walls are not taken up completely by the drawings, if you desire there to be any whatsoever that is. Creating them like splashes, as if they’re images torn out of books for example, with the ends blurring out into the main colour, will successfully sidestep the feeling of a four-page book.”  
“And what do you propose be done with the rest of the space?” King Louis finally appears to be opening up to the idea of a woman putting together the general outline of his son’s room.  
“Well… squiggles.”  
“Squiggles? Ha!” Rochefort immediately uses the opportunity to sink his teeth into me. “What’s next – throw paint and call it art?”  
A glance from Constance stops me from scoffing at the ironic truthfulness that rhetorical question holds or hurling the table at that jerk, successfully wiping the smug smirk from his face. ‘He may be a dangerous enemy. Do NOT provoke him unless highly needed!’  
“I’m afraid you got me completely wrong. I didn’t phrase it well. Here,” placing another sheet of paper on the desk, I once again resume the previous respectful distance. “They are more like patterns that interlace and combine in different shapes and forms. They may represent the entwined braches of a tree for example, or lots of lianas twisting around one another. The options are numerous. I have sketched out a few so that you may envision what I try to describe.”  
“We are smart enough to get your idea.” The scold in the King’s voice makes me pale and drops of sweat form on the back of my neck.   
“That remark was meant solely towards my lack of literal accuracy and rich vocabulary so to explain my ideas, Your Majesty. In no way was it spoken as an offence to your intellectual capacity.”  
“For someone claiming not to have good literal accuracy, you speak quite pompous at times. And you write on top of that. Who gave you such education? From what I know you are a florist, not a noble woman.”  
My teeth grit at the unintentional offence, yet once again reminding myself that this is the 17th century, a time where education isn’t provided for women, let alone for the low-lives such as myself, I swallow down a few smartass responses and opt for their humble alternatives.  
“My father wanted me to have education. He, himself, was a knowledgeable man and so he taught me the basics. Everything else I learned through reading and self-examination.”  
King Louis studies me for some time, laughter and some amusement in his dark brown eyes before nodding, as if finding my answer sufficient.  
“What a generous father you have, Madame.”  
“Mademoiselle.” The correction literally slips past my lips without my conscious approval, thus successfully interrupting the King of France.  
Raising an eyebrow and once again looking at me up and down, obviously finding me too old not to have a husband, a barely concealed smirk stretches his lips, yet no reply comes. Pretending to ignore this small lapse, I patiently wait for him to allow me to continue. My own gaze meets his and I try to keep it calm, intelligent and as humble as possible.   
“What’s wrong with your eyes?”  
Less humble and calm than a second ago now.  
“Nothing is wrong with them. They are just different in colour.” The words come out as if read out of a book – monotonous and emotionless.  
“But something must be wrong. They are not like normal eyes. Something’s mixed with their colour.”   
Even less calmness and tranquillity. Inhale. ‘He’s the King of France. You cannot tell him to fuck off, nor can you vociferate your aggravation. Stay level-headed. As cool as a cucumber. That’s it. Be a veggie.’ Exhale.  
“Just because my definition of normal differentiates from Your Majesty’s understanding of normality, doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me. I see just as adequately as everyone else.”  
“Odd. You are quite wiseacre, Mademoiselle.” Grinning like a small child in a candy shop, the desire to roll my eyes at him becomes almost unbearable.  
Instead I fake a small smile and nod towards the still awaiting pages. Nodding his permission for me to continue, I do so whole-heartedly.  
It feels like hours later when I’m finally dismissed and can get out of the office. Not once or twice Rochefort found it appropriate to try and humiliate or attack me, yet I didn’t stand idly by. The retaliation and remarks were smoother than butter and tackier than honey, making it hard most of the time for the King to realise I’m openly insulting his Cardinal. Many minutes were lost in pointless questions concerning my personal life, and some in topics that bore no connection with what we had gathered to discuss. In the end at least I had a few approved sketches and the idea about the doodles was accepted as plausible for the time being.  
With my back drenched in sweat from all the effort and tension, my body feels as light as a feather once I’m as far away from Rochefort as possible without actually running down the halls.  
“Mademoiselle Bellanger!”   
Stopping dead in my track and spinning around, I curtsey as Her Majesty reaches me, the same kind smile on her face as usual. Constance walks a few paces behind her, her hands folded at the front of her skirt in a sign of modesty, yet the sly smirk tugging at her lips destroys the initial appearance of a mild servant.  
“Your Majesty.”  
“You did good. I’m content and so is the King.”  
“I’m happy to hear I have lived up to your expectations at this point.”  
“You have. But I wanted to ask of you something else. You are still living in Mousier Bonacieux’s house, indeed?”  
“Yes.”  
“Wouldn’t it be more comfortable for you to move here, in the palace? You’ll no longer have to travel and the library and finest artist will be within reach?”  
“Is Her Majesty saying that…” Speechless, no further words come to express my astonishment.  
‘Mind glitch!’ The inner voice, that scrutinising bitch, rolls her eyes melodramatically and shakes her head.  
“I’m inviting you to come live in the palace. I came to know you and Constance are very close, inseparable even, and I’d like nothing less than to make my new lady in waiting sad by keeping her away from my personal advisor. What would you say? Don’t dare deny your Queen, Valary.”  
Beyond that point it’s clear she most probably already has my room ready and awaiting me. Heck, maybe even my stuff are there. ‘My bag!’ And just like that the bubble of blissful existence in luxury pops. Bringing my bag here will mean there’s a weapon my enemies can use against me; yet destroying it sound unnatural and unacceptable. ‘But what if I hide it somewhere here; a place where no one will dare or think of looking? Even if they find it, there’s no way that it can lead back to me… as long as I get my ID and licence out of there… ‘  
“I’m honoured by your graciousness, Your Majesty. How I’ll repay your trust is beyond me.”  
“Wonderful! I hope you’ll soon manage to bring all your belongings. Constance will show you to your rooms as soon as you’re ready.”  
Grabbing my hands in her smaller ones, Anne beams at me with such glee and joy that’s impossible not to return the grin.  
“I’m glad I’ll have another friend close by.”  
“So am I.”

/***/

Fifteen days in total since the Musketeers left. Two whole weeks without a word about their wellbeing or whereabouts. Nothing, complete silence. Almost every day it’s either me or Constance that goes to Captain Treville, desperate for a scrap of news, anything to ease our minds from the worst having happened. And each and every time he responds in the same manner– there’s nothing. Eventually half the garrison was send in search for them, yet still no progress has been made. Once again it is work that saves both me and my friend from complete hysterical collapse. That, and hope. Hope that they are still alive somewhere.   
“Val!” A low whisper startles me and I put aside the book.  
It’s well past bed time, yet I’m still in my dress, with only my hair free from the vice grip of the bun I put it into while working. Leaving the security of the armchair near the burning fireplace, I tip-toe towards the door and pull it slightly ajar, enough to peek outside.  
“Constance?!”  
Even the gentlest of whispers gets magnified in the eerie silence that has befallen the empty halls. On the other side of the door, dressed as well, stands my rebellious friend with a candle in her hand.  
“What’s wrong?” Urging her inside so that no one may become privy of our conversation, I close the door as silently as possible. “What are you doing up at this hour?”  
“I can’t sleep! I can’t think!” Leaving the candle on the desk, the second there’s no danger of her setting something on fire, she begins pacing, her hands fidgeting and waving around in manner too common for me.  
“You are worried. So am I. But we must stay strong. I’m sure they’re fine. Probably on their way back by now.” Soothing her with petty lies is stupid and senseless, yet that’s all I can offer.  
“But what if… what if they never come back?!”   
Her voice cracks at the end and unexpectedly she burst into silent tears. Rushing to her side and pulling her smaller frame into a hug, I let her choke her hiccups against my shoulders. For a few traitorous seconds I feel like breaking down as well, yet at such time as this it’s unacceptable for both of us to lower our guard. So instead of accompanying her in the wails of pain and sorrow, I whisper sweet nothings into her ear and rock her back and forth, desperately wanting to allow her the enclosure she has given me not once or twice.  
“I’m so worried, Val. What if they’re dead? What if - ”  
“Shush! They are well and alive, I tell you so! No such words as dead will I hear from your mouth!” Scolding her in a motherly manner, my hands hug her even tighter in fear that any moment now she’ll turn to dust and seep from between my fingers.  
“How can you be so sure?” The question gets muffled against my dress, yet I still manage to grasp it.  
“I must. If I allow myself to wallow and admit their demise, then I am as good as dead as well. I must believe they’re safe and sound. We must.”  
Each and every day I spend away from him, not knowing whether he’s okay or dying, is a day passed in hell, yet I know I must stay strong. If not for myself, then for Constance; seeing me break will be her downfall as well. So pushing the sorrow away and swallowing the lump in my throat, for some time I continue to reassure her that all will be fine. Eventually she calms down enough to get sleepy. Making sure she makes it back to her room intact, I return to mine and decide to also try and rest. Yet the longer I stare at the thick shadows surrounding me, the more I feel like a drowning man trying to grasp at straws as a last desperate attempt to save himself.  
“Where are you, Athos?”  
The question sounds like the calling of a siren – summoning and at the same time agonized beyond belief for response. Yet such doesn’t come, so I urge myself to close my eyelids and fall asleep. 

 

The next morning I’m up and ready an hour before breakfast, yet the spare seconds I put aside explicitly so to look through my notes for the day get swallowed by an unexpected fierce banging. The door of my room gets hit so hard that it not only startles me but also makes me worry about its wholeness if whoever is knocking doesn’t stop. Rushing and unlocking it, I swing it open, ready to kick someone’s shins for assaulting me so early in the morning. Yet for Constance’s glowing and reddened face I have no response. All the vile words die out in my throat at the sight of her unexpectedly changed expression.  
“What’s the emergency about?! And at this hour?”   
I’d have invited her in if she hadn’t grabbed my hand and tugged me out in the corridor.  
“Their back! They came back last night!! Just like you said they would!” She’s squealing with joy and there are happy tears in her eyes enough to create a small lake.  
“Who told you that?!”   
“Captain Treville! I just happened to pass him by a few minutes ago. He said they were back but needed rest so were off duty for a few days.”  
“Then what are we waiting for?! Let’s go!” Running back into my room and grabbing the cloak thrown over the back of the desk chair I rush out, closing the door as quietly as such a happy occasion permits me.  
“I can’t. Her Majesty needs me.” Her sullen face throws cold water over my newly kindled enthusiasm.  
There’s a second in which I want to tell her to fuck duty and come, but then again how can I? With what right am I about to leave the side of our patron so spontaneously and without a warning? It’s beyond unacceptable to exit without permission, let alone notice. Then a new plan forms in my mind.  
“Is Her Majesty up?”  
“I believe so, yes. Why?” Perplexed and following me as I literally run down the hall, Constance seems to still not be grasping my simple plan.  
“Because I plan on asking her to pardon us for a few hours.” I heave out once in front of the double doors leading to the Queen’s quarters.  
“You…. what?” Out of breath and panting, I’m sure my dear friend would have come up with better word choice, was there any oxygen left in her burning lungs.  
Without waiting for the guards to open the doors, I knock and enter with Constance hot on my heels. The grin that I tried to conceal seconds ago slips from my face on its own accord at the sight before me – Her Majesty Queen Anne looks like she’s about to either faint or insult someone, as she paces restlessly back and forth around her vast room with a grim expression on her pace. Stopping dead in our track, the previous words of plea and joy successfully chocked back, I notice how distress has made her oblivious to what unfolds around her, for example our abrupt entry.   
“Your Majesty?”   
The sound of my voice ringing in the eerily silent room snaps her out of whatever thoughts have been plaguing her mind and she looks at me and then at Constance. The sheer sorrow and worry in those two always happy azure pools is so uncanny that I skip to hear what she says. Thankfully my friend is more perceptive and quickly intervenes, saving me the humiliation of having spaced out in the presence of the Queen.  
“We came with a request…” Her voice is small, uncertain, as obviously whatever desires she had of leaving the palace immediately step aside to the duty towards Her Majesty.  
“We wanted to know if you desired someone to be send for fresh flower arrangements for your rooms. It has been brought up to me that the last ones withered and I thought that maybe some new additions will better your mood.”  
Anne looks between the two of us and despite certainly noting the mantles and pinpointing the lie, comments it in no way as her other ladies are still present, along with Rochefort. The man’s standing way too close to her and his body serves as a blockade towards any safe exit, which happens to unnerve me greatly, yet upon our arrival he steps to the side. Now, while throwing daggers our way for obviously interrupting something of importance, he voices no dismay, much to my distaste. I’d have gladly shunned him out for even daring to be in the Queen’s private room, regardless of the maidens being here or not.  
“Her Majesty is distressed. Maybe you should make yourselves helpful and leave her to rest.” His slick voice rises dramatically in the vast room in a manner of authority, making bile rise to my throat.   
“Indeed you appear unhappy, Your Majesty. With what can we help you cheer up?”   
Completely ignoring his smartly masked order to depart, I sense Constance coming to stand next to me, her hand squeezing mine in silent support. ‘She appears to despise him just as much.’ The satisfaction from that disclosure fuels me up to stand my ground even firmer and under no pretext leave Anne’s side; not when he’s around at least.  
“Nothing could be done. I’m sorry I worried you so.” Continuing her restless pacing once again, she throws a mere saddened look out of the window, then at us before shaking her head and taking a sit behind her boudoir.  
“Constance, could you do my hair.”   
Without waiting any further ado, the said female dashes forward and around the Cardinal, who glares at her with an obvious grudge, which she ignores.   
“Valary, tell me you have developed the idea about my son’s room?”   
The hint is obvious – she wants us to stay and act as a living shield between her and whatever is troubling her inner peace. I can’t help the feeling that the blond male standing in the middle of the sleeping quarters has something to do with all this, yet I keep those observations to myself.  
“Indeed I have, your Majesty. As suggested I created a few ready compositions of drawings and laces from which you can choose as well as selected a variety of probable colour palettes.”   
My words muffle the departing steps of the ladies in waiting, as with a single glance in the mirror she dismisses them all. Now the enormous space appears even more suffocating with only the four of us, Rochefort standing like a living wall stacked with explosives between us and the door.   
“The development concerning the cradle of the Dauphine is in continuous improvement as I personally spoke with the carpenter and explained explicitly what is desired of him. He assured me a prototype will be ready in a month or so and bestowed before their Majesties.”  
The morning sun breaches through the parted heavy curtains enough to cast its rays over the Queen’s face and accentuate her tired eyes, brimmed by dark circles and the chalkiness of her skin. The withered flowers I brought a week ago now stand limp and dried on the furthest right corner of the boudoir, their dead heads lulling slightly under the gentle caress of the breeze that enters through the left ajar windows. The cool air is refreshing and restorative, yet at the same time carries the essence of winter and snow.   
“Good. As soon as you have the samples ready I’d like to see them. About the cradle, I’m sure you’ll look after its proper creation.” The official note in her cold voice makes me tense, yet I obligingly nod my head.   
All the meanwhile I speak in a calm and prepossessing voice, Constance brushes through Anne’s long golden locks and eventually frenzies them in a fancy hairdo, constructed mainly of plats and held in place by many pins; successfully we work at sync at calming down our Queen and putting her strained nerves at ease. With the messy look out of the window, Anne looks more like her regal alter ego than the generous and kind ruler, notoriously known amongst the common people for her compassion.   
“You should leave Her Majesty to her duties now, as she has great responsibilities today.”   
Once again that cursed man tries to get rid of us, yet while Constance plays absent-minded once again, too submerged into her work over the complex hairstyle to pay attention whatsoever to the ignominious male, I dare meet the Cardinal’s eyes. There’re unhidden warnings everywhere – from the way his voice cuts at the air like a dagger, to how his eyes narrow and even in his proud posture. He wants us out of the room immediately, but unfortunately is still unaware that the only power that can get us out is Her Majesty’s order.  
“We serve the Queen and her desires are what we obey. If she wishes, she’ll dismiss us.”  
Nothing more is said for quite some time as Rochefort literally changes a few shades of red at my words. The only thing stopping him from marching forward and seizing me is the presence of our ruler and the way she quickly intervenes, swiftly managing to prevent the feud before it even begins.  
“Do proceed, Valary. Rochefort, your service at present is unrequired, so I won’t detain you any further.”  
A victorious shout rings in the back of my head, followed by a few smart remarks and bad gestures, yet on the outside I stay composed and follow the departure of the fuming male in the reflexion of the mirror. Once gone, Constance and I sigh in unison, neither being conscious of having held her breath up until now. Sharing a look over Her Majesty’ head, a silent agreement is reached for the time being to keep our worries and scruples concerning the new fiduciary of the King between ourselves.   
“Were you really intending to ask me to go to the market for flowers?” Anne’s voice breaks the settled silence.  
She doesn’t sound angry or insulted but rather amused of having caught the preposterous lie so easily.   
“No,” honesty may bring us trouble, but falsehood will surely cost us her trust, so I opt for a scold than a drawn curtain, “The missing Musketeers have returned this evening and we were eager to go and see them. I’d have begged you to pardon us for an hour or so, but seeing you this distressed I - we, no longer find it respectful to ask of such a thing. It appears you need us at your side if not for guidance, than for moral support more than they do.”  
“You have no idea how right you are, Valary.”  
In a fit of sadness brought by the reappearance of her previous worry, her azure eyes once again get dulled and glassed, reminding me of pebbles – beautiful to look at but irrevocably empty and hollow.   
“I grand you permission to go to them. I’m sure they’ll appreciate your presence.” Smiling at us through the mirror, Anne vainly tries to put her mask of disinterest and detachment on.  
“We waited for their return for over two weeks. We can wait a few more hours.” The reassuring tone in Constance’s voice sets the matter as finished and in no need of further discussion.   
The Queen’s lips tug upwards into a content and relaxed smile. For a brief moment she grasps our hands and squeezes before standing up and instructing us to follow. 

/***/

The garrison is buzzing like a beehive with activity – Musketeers move back and forth, fight in the muddy grounds or simply sit around, huddled in their cloaks. The weather today is exceptionally good, with only the cool wind to chase the puffy clouds in the sky. With the market open once again for the first time after the snow fell, people have vacated their homes in favour of stocking for the long and cold winter to come, thus making the Parisian streets impossible to walk through. Thankfully supplied with horses, Constance and I split the rivers of the busy mass as we go by, the steady pace of the white mares, despite not fast and agile like the stallions, at least allows us a sense of movement. The whole morning and a part of the noon we spend by Her Majesty’s side, tending to her and generally acting like a barrier between her and those who managed to distress her. Only after she called it a day and closed herself in her quarters with the promise of not getting out did we leave for the garrison. Still clad in the fancy dresses we are made to wear and only with the woollen cloaks to protect us from the weather, by the time me manage to breach the stream of never-ending people and reach the destination we headed to at least half an hour ago, we are shivering. The hoods are drawn over our heads and our bodies are literally wrapped like Christmas presents by the mantles, yet the winter is making its presence known even in seemingly calm days as this one.   
The second the Musketeers spot us, a stable boy rushes forward and immediately takes the reins of the horses. Two older men that are standing a few feet away come and help us dismount, to which we reply with stiff smiles and silently whispered gratitude as our frozen feet would have barely withstood the potential jump in the mud. All eyes are on us, yet our own gazes search the surrounding for familiar faces. Finally, spotting them on their usual table, we make a move to go there as elegantly as an hour of riding can allow us. Yet not with even three steps made, Constance forgets manner, etiquette and so on and literally dashes forward at the sight of D’Artagnan’s smile. Throwing her hands around his neck, she pulls him into a fierce hug, almost suffocating him.   
Laughter rises at the bizarre sight of them mashed together so tightly, enveloped in such a fierce hug that it’s hard to tell where Constance’s body ends and D’Artagnan’s starts. Unlike her, my steps remain slow and measured as I near the other two. Athos is not present and that leaves a feeling of suspense and worry in the pits of my stomach.  
“Took you long enough to bring your hats back!” Jokingly scolding Aramis and Porthos, I pull both of them in brief hugs.  
“If such a warm welcoming is to be expected each time we return from dangerous missions, I’m willing to sign up more often.” The large Musketeer’s happy exclamation and jolly smirk ease my nerves.  
“Don’t count of it, big guy.” Punching his shoulder I pull the just freed D’Artagnan in an embrace as well, yet not as breath-choking and spine-snapping as his lover’s.  
“I’m happy to see you all safe and sound.”  
“Aye, it was a tough few weeks.” Nodding with a slightly begrudging expression of his face, Porthos sits back down.  
The next ten or so minutes pass in chatter revolving around the general outlines of their adventure, the obstacles, the mishaps and so on, anything they can share that doesn’t get censured by the vow of secrecy. It is all shared with a lot more sense of humour that they must have felt at the given time, as a better part of their journey appears to have mainly been collisions and slips along the road. And yet as time tickles by, there’s still no sign of Athos, or at least a hint from his friends that he intends to join us whatsoever. Eventually the jolly mood I came in here with degrades into worry and fear as my heart clenches and the cold shivers that wrack my frame are no longer caused by the chilly wind.   
“You appear sullen. Has something bad happened?” Aramis is the first to drop the act of pretending not to notice how restless I appear.  
“Apart from having to deal with Rochefort’s presence?” Constance butts in as a last attempt to stir the conversation in a direction that will not conclude with me getting hurt.  
Appreciating the gesture despite everything, right now I prefer the honesty deriving from sharing than the theatrical show.  
“Is he dead?” Whispering so that to hide the wavering of my voice, I still choke on the words.  
They feel like acid sipping down my throat while at the same time bile fills my mouth. The combination, added up to the erratic and uneven beat of my heart and the obscure coldness of my body further destabilise me. Whatever self-control I managed to impose up until this very moment, at this point it’s gone. ‘I must know. If he’s dead I must know!’  
“No. He’s… recovering from a long night.”   
Aramis’ eyes look at me pleadingly, as if begging for no further questioning or prying, yet his answer is too lax and inadequate. Meeting the saddened chocolate brown irises of his with my now watery yet still steal-edged green and hazel ones, I keep on picking on the wound as gently yet straightforwardly as possible.  
“He was injured?”  
“You can say that, ‘right!” Porthos’ low mumble, meant for only his ears probably, reaches my own rather perked ones.  
The scoff in those words sends me into a silent frenzy and I literally have to grip the edge of the table for support.  
“What do you mean?”  
Yet the Musketeer stays strangely silent after looking at his friends. While D’Artagnan appears somewhat distracted and aloof, Aramis is barely containing himself from slapping behind the head his brother in arms for letting his tongue loose.  
“Tell me, Aramis. I need to know if he’ll survive or not!”   
“He’s not mortally wounded by a weapon, Mademoiselle.”   
The sigh comes out as a puff of relief, as if a ton of weigh just fell off my shoulders. ‘He’s alive.’  
“Then what do you meant by your previous observation?”  
“Well, let’s say his encounter with good ol’ vin rouge was not as prosperous as previously anticipated; if we didn’t know him better, we’d have suggested he’d toppled over due to alcoholic poisoning.”  
“We still checked on him, though. Safety precautions.” Porthos pipes in over the rim of his tankard, his eyes darting around in an uneasy manner.  
Silence befalls over the table for a few moments in which the only noise is the chatter of the other men in the garrison. It’s so strange that while we here discuss matters of such great importance, only a few feet away two brothers in arms quarrel over whose horse is faster. Their impartiality with the current emotional turmoil and even downfall that rages through me creates such a harsh contrast that a hysterical laugh bubbles within my. ‘Why should they split a coin over what I feel?’  
“And what might have pushed him down such a path of crapulence on the night of his return from a long and tiresome mission?”   
I’m confused, worried and generally out of my element; never really getting to care so much for a man in my life has left me incapable of actually grasping the importance of making sure the ones you hold dear are okay. What films show I always thought fiction, utopian place where love prevails, and is strong and consuming. Yet now, with the uncertainty of Athos’ state of mind, body or soul, I feel like a shaking mess that’s at the verge of tears; a classic scene straight out of a low-budged drama series.  
“I think it will be best if he is to introduce you to that part. It’s not our place to speak without his presence.”  
“And since when does his absence retain you from speaking your mind?”   
Finding himself in a dead-end as to how to proceed further and obviously finding the topic if not uncomfortable to discuss, then dangerous, Aramis, the silver-tongued Don Juan, tilts his head in surrender and takes a sip of his tankard. He’ll speak no more, and for a second I want to shout out in anger, grab him by the throat and make him wheeze out everything if necessary. Yet I’m successfully pulled out from my murderous rage by D’Artagnan’s action. Slamming his own tankard hard on the table, he makes me and Constance jump with fright.   
“She deserves to know, dammit. Athos may stay in his room for God knows how long!” His aggravation is rather praiseworthy as he appears to be the only one who has the guts to be honest with me.  
“It’s not our place to speak of matters that do not directly concern us, D’Artagnan.” The warning in Aramis’ voice, despite more like a friendly scold, is still plainly clear.  
“Fine. If you won’t tell her, I will!” All fired up for some reason, the young Musketeer’s reaction gives me a reason to get strenuous once again.  
“Tell me.” Hard and unyielding under the other two’s pleading looks, I face D’Artagnan with the clear mind that what he tells me right now may hold the power to shift the centre of my gravity forever.  
“We came across Milady while on our way back to Paris.”   
My eyes widen as those words are the last I expected to hear. Be it dangerous battles, demons from the past, someone’s death, anything but that. The coldness suddenly gets replaced by waves of heat so strong that I literally sense my blood thudding in my ears and under my skin.  
“And?” Spiting the word as if it’s poison, for the time being I decide it best to refrain from the usage of long and complex sentences, thus favouring sense over content.  
“For what we know they only spoke. She demanded it and after admitting being in possession of information of crucial importance he reluctantly followed her in another room. That’s all we saw!”  
The hints are so plainly obvious that the underlying awful forthcoming disclosure makes my chest ache; it’s as if my heart tugs at the arteries and veins protruding from it as if they are mere threads and wishes nothing more but to tear them apart and get loose. Fighting for small gulps of breath, I sufficiently suffocate the rising of more bile, triggered by the jealousy and vexation that currently thicken my blood and make it feel like lead. ‘Stay calm. You don’t know the whole story. It may not be that bad!’  
“Oh, c’mon, Aramis! You saw the stains of her lipstick on his face no better than I did!” The outburst, despite not up-roaring in its speaking affects me on such a deep level that for a whole second I stay deaf and numb, forgetting where I am or what I’m doing here.  
In a rush this mind glitch washes away and all the noises come clashing back down over my senses like steam hammers, threatening to shatter me like a frail piece of glass. The Musketeers appear to be in a disagreement at present, thus staying blind to my distress, while Constance has joined me by my side, her hands moving up and down my shoulders in an attempt to sooth me. For one horrendous second I fear I may be crying or shaking or sobbing, yet in real life I’m stoically sitting there like a statue; cold and unmoving .  
“We didn’t see it with our own eyes, D’Artagnan! The case may not be such at all!” Aramis appears ready to grab his friend by the revers and shake him so passionately so to stir and jumble his thoughts.  
“Where is he currently?”  
Despite the words getting uttered under my breath, Porthos hears them. The quarrel is put to an immediate end.  
“You need some time to calm down. At this point we know nothing for sure. It all may be one big misunderstanding.” The smoothness in his voice and the gentleness with which he tries to calm me are touching, yet currently undesired.  
“I swear to you I simply want to see him. Whatever is to be said between us will happen in its due time. Right now I just need to see him.”   
“He’s in no presentable state, Val. He wouldn’t want you to see him such.”  
“Porthos, please. Don’t make me go knock on each and every door in the garrison. Just show me to his room, I ask of nothing more.”  
A few tense minutes of silence settle, as all of them are reluctant to take me to Athos, knowing that after a night such as the previous one he’ll be either unconscious or the very least - not himself. Yet at the end, under the sad yet unbuckling look in my eyes they cave it. It’s Porthos who takes me up the stairs and to the second floor. As we walk, I notice who tense he appears – his shoulders are stiff and his back strained from the effort of not bending over under the invisible weight he carries.  
Reaching a door and stopping before it, this one in nothing differentiates itself from all the rest we passed, yet something in me halts, as if sensing he’s on the other side of it.   
“He’s in here, but he may still be asleep. Please Val, let him be for some time. Seeing him in this state won’t be beneficial for either of you.”   
There are so many things I want to tell him that will make him see things from my point of view – how worried sick I am, how I couldn’t sleep because I believed Athos dead, how my whole centre of gravity got misbalanced by his probable demise in a faraway land. So many things tug me towards him, such a wild passion and sense of belonging that words can barely comprehend what I feel. I, myself, still can barely comprehend what I feel. Yet looking at me the way he does, with his warm chocolate brown eyes filled with worry and plea, Porthos leaves me defenceless to his charm.  
“I could care less in what state he is, as long as I can see it with my own eyes that he’s well and alive.”  
The soft sigh of resignation comes out like a little cloud of warmth. The temperatures appear to have dropped after all, making the air outside bitingly chilly.   
“The door’s locked.”   
“If you don’t open it, I will.”  
A second of silent staring follows, after which he nods his head and quickly upper hands the lock. The mechanism clicks softly, signalising that the latch has come undone. A low whiff of wind swirls the mantle around my feet, entangling it and my skirt together, thus preventing any movement whatsoever. Yet the dire need to do what I must, what I desire the most right now, gives me the needed strength to move my frozen fingers and quickly fix my clothes. Grabbing the handle and pushing it down, thus leaving no place for backing down at this point, I throw a glance over my shoulder at Porthos. He appears sullen and displeased, even regretful. There’s pity in his eyes, silent compassion, as if with a mere glance he can tell what I feel and forgives me my bluntness and harshness.  
“Thank you.”   
I don’t get to see if he heard or not my words as I push open the door and make a move to enter. Yet the foul stench of alcohol and frowst hits me like a tidal wave, making me stumble and grimace.  
“Good grace!” Porthos’ low exclamation is the last thing I hear before closing the door silently behind my back.   
The inside of the room is bathed in shadows and the various scents create a mist-like feeling that urges me towards the window - alcoholic vapour, the strong smell of leather, food that’s presumably no longer edible and the odour of a man. As quietly as possible I pull it open and steady it enough so that some freshness and cool briskness can enter. The tattered curtain gets waffled under the cool caress of the wind. Stepping over the pile of his discarded uniform and rapier I glance around the room again, ignoring the havoc ruling all around. ‘A typical male room.’ Is the first thought that crosses my mind at the sight of the mess. Then I notice the bundle on the bed and my heart misses a beat, the chaos completely forgotten. The shape is rather formless, a cocoon of blankets, yet I can make out where his head is by the wild dark bird’s nest of a hair that stands out against the white sheets. Making an attempt to near him, I involuntarily kick something that gives a low jingle. Looking down and praying that it isn’t something breakable or of importance, my eyes widen at the sight of the worrying amount of bottle rolling over the wooden floor. Mentally counting, at ten I stop and squeeze my eyes shut as if the mere sight of them causes me pain. Yet it’s not the image of the discarded pieces of empty glass that roll around, nor the stench of alcohol that suffocates the air, but what all these mean about Athos’ current state of mind. ‘How shaken must he have been so to reach such a high extend of alcoholic stupor? Dear God, I can make a small mountain with all those bottles!’   
A groan suddenly vibrates in the silent room, jerking me out of my mental worry. The bundle moves, wiggles for a second and then a hand protrudes from under the fold, hanging off the bed like a chopped off limb. The involuntary comparison makes me shudder. Another groan follows, this one more prominent and more awake-sounding then the last, indicating that the male is mostly in a state of slumber rather than knocked out cold asleep. The bundle shifts again and the blankets slip to the side, uncovering Athos’ face. The veil of sleep is still hanging over him, successfully softening his features. The strong jaw, usually always stiff and clenched, now is relaxed and adorned by a few days old beard. His facial muscles are no longer uptight in his impeccable poker face, but are completely soft. A sudden change of expression shuffles this tranquillity and his eyebrows knit in a light frown. Unknowingly I appear to have drawn closer to his resting form, attracted by his angelic face, as now my hand outstretches on its own account and with the tips of my fingers I caress the small wrinkles formed across his forehead. Under my touch the frown melts away and his muscles relax at once. Yet I have merely a second to marvel at this wonder before his eyelids flutter like the wings of a butterfly. The action repeats once again before they lift open enough so to allow me to gaze down at the two still dizzy and unfocused pools of sky blue, brimmed by his bloodshot eyes that further accentuate the colour. ‘He hasn’t had a moment of rest. His demons are out to play again…’ The recall of that woman and him meeting jabs me hard, yet for the sake of this precious moment I chase away the jealousy that makes me feel like I have bitten into a very sour lemon.   
Athos is still way too far into slumber for his rational mind to completely grasp my presence, so it takes some time before his eyes can focus on me. By now, realising that as long as I’m looming over his resting form I will only succeed in scaring him, I’ve knelt down next to the bed. His lips are chapped and dry, and from this proximity I can see the bruises and cuts adorning his face and neck and the purple blotch under his right cheekbone, which speaks of a punch badly received.   
“Wh-…” His voice is rasp as if he had used it too harshly and too much.  
“Shh. It’s alright.” My own whisper is filled with emotions I try to conceal, making it uneven.  
Quickly fetching a glass of water, I make him drink it, silencing any small protests he might have. Kneeling next to his bed, I run my fingers through Athos’ hair, threading the damp locks and pushing them back.   
“I came to see you, Athos. I was so worried about you.”  
He looks at me with such a heart-wretched look, so sad and confused that I take pity and reconsider further burdening his still intoxicated mind. A soft smile lights up my face as I keep on gently caressing his face, careful not to graze at his wounds and bruises.   
“Go back to sleep.”   
“Val.” The underlined plea in the choked saying of my name makes my heart clench and another jab of pain washes through me.   
“It’s alright, Athos. Go back to sleep.”  
Leaning down and kissing his forehead, I stay a few more seconds like this, with my warm lips against his ice-cold forehead, and allow all my solicitude and love for him to seep through this small connection and ease his struggle.  
The heaviness in my chest weighs down on me with each and every breath I take knowing that Milady has once again walked into his life, carrying their past and my future with her. The power she possess, its immense destruction, can easily annihilate everything Athos and I have with a single word. ‘I must not let that happen. I must not let her take him away from me. No matter the cost, I’ll be honest.’ Caressing him one last time I make a move to rise up and leave when one of his hands shoots forward and clasps around my cheek. Stopping dead in my track, I gaze at his eyes, which appear so much clearer and more intense than a fraction of a second ago. And the sadness there is boundless. Not allowing any bad thoughts to get under my skin and further drive me away from him, I spontaneously bend down and capture his lips with mine. There is still a lingering bitter-sweet aftertaste of wine on them, yet I pay no mind to that. The kiss is mostly a peck, a reassurance that I’m here and am willing to hear him out; it’s an act of my devotion and desire for this, whatever it is between us, to work out. Pulling away slowly, reluctantly even, I rest my forehead against his for a moment before finally standing up.   
“Go back to sleep.”  
It appears my words finally lull him back and slumber claims him before I even manage to tip-toe out of the room. The door shuts behind my back with a low thud as the cold wind hits me in the face, making my whole body shudder. Leaning against the solid wood and squeezing my eyes shut, I allow myself a moment to recollect my peace of mind and inner strength. Crumbling down right now will be of no use to anyone, let alone me. I feel like a shattered mirror – there are parts missing and then there are such that stick out. Those have sharp, jagged edges that cut through anything, including me, with each and every movement. No matter how hard I try to balance between this world and myself, I always stumble across a huge chunk of glass, shredded and cutting, which pierces through me in one way or another, leaving a deep gash in its way. All the efforts bestowed in the field of survival appear to be in vain, if in the end I lose the man I care for the most. The heaviness in my chest hasn’t changed as much as I anticipated; it just shifted from one worry to another. ‘Athos is mine, outlander. Leave him alone.’ Somehow now I can put a name behind the mysterious woman from my nightmares, and soon, if things continue to unfold so drastically, a face will appear as well.  
The second for reflexion passes as soon as the voices of the Musketeers in the garrison get carried by the cool winter air. My eyelids open and I stare up at the peeking sky – the grey has started to darken into a coal black, and the scythe of the moon can be seen through the thick blanket of the clouds. Something suddenly flashes from behind this veil of fluff and seconds later a low, drumming thunder resonates in the air, electrifying it. ‘The storm has begun.’  
Another low, growl-like thunder follows seconds later, deafening out the low thud of my steps as I depart down the wooden stairs. Peaking over the rail down at the Musketeers alongside with Constance and spotting how worried and distressed they appear, a realisation strikes me.  
“I’m not the mirror. I’m one of the shreds of glass.”


	8. Wounds

As expected of winter, one second everything is chilly and only mildly irritating; next thing you know there is snow driven up the doors, barricading Parisians inside their homes. Havoc is raging all around and slowly but surely people begin to chant something about the end of the world.   
“My mind can’t grasp this bizarre weather! It has never shifted so suddenly!” The woman next to me exclaims, making me avert my eyes from the peaceful white scenery of Paris being devoured by whiteness and spare her a sideway glance.  
All I got to know from my residence in the Versailles thus far is that half the female representatives are nobility and lack any rational sense, while the other half are in one way or another servants. The one that just spoke falls into the first category and thus I can’t make a remark concerning her limited intelligence and poor choice of clothing, as the thin dress she’s wearing will be quite unfitting for the outdoor activities His Majesty has planned for this afternoon.   
“Indeed it hasn’t, Madame.”   
In favour of my social status, it’s Constance that responds politely with a smile, before throwing me a look filled with slight scold. Ignoring her discontent, I once again look out of the window, allowing my thoughts to wander around, a luxury which has evolved into a rarity these past few weeks since. It has been, give or take, a week since the Musketeers returned to the garrison in one piece. Twice did I have to bear the humiliation of going there and having to face the pitying looks of Athos’ comrades in favour of his absence until some sense finally seeped into my thick skull and I backed away in abeyance. Located behind the tall doors of the palace and daily molested by the pestering presence of the ladies of court as well as Rochefort, even the greatest of saints will find his or her patience at the verge of collapse under such strong offence. Thankfully, with Constance at my side and Her Majesty continuously occupying my wavering attention with the Dauphin’s bedroom project, the days, despite miserable, pass.   
The buzzing sound of voices is abruptly put to an end. The shifting and swishing of dresses fills the tense silence and I finally turn around, expecting to find the King grinning at us as if God himself peeled his apple this morning. Instead, to my utter and unpleasant amazement, I see the blue-eyed viper that’s been slithering around the royal couple with almost admirable flexibility.  
“Mademoiselle Bellanger, there’s a task waiting to occupy your attention in the hall.”   
The mere sound of his sugar-coated, roasted-apple-syrup voice triggers my gag reflex at the same time as the self-preservation. Quite astonishing ability to possess, that much I’m willing to admit.   
“What an atrocity to send you like a messenger, Cardinal.” The cold, edge-cutting smile splits my face.   
“Duty is beyond anything else, Mademoiselle. Now if you would?”  
There’s no question or invitation in his shrill voice; turning on his heels and striding away, he expects me to follow like an obedient dog. ‘Manners. Hierarchy. Respect.’ Chanting mentally my go-to reminder, I nod at Constance and move forward, my feet feeling like I have sunk them into cement and now have to drag them after the obnoxious excuse of a man.   
The halls are empty, save for the few odd guards. Their tall frames and grim faces, accompanied by the red capes and the pointy hats unsettle me and allow the seed of worry which took root awhile back to bloom further into a feeling of foreboding. ‘Why are Red Guards on watch in the palace? Where is the Musketeer escort?’ Ever since moving in the Versailles, I made it a habit of mine to watch out for certain things; the reduced number of blue-caped men is one of them. The broad-brimmed, feather ornamented hats are now replaced with dull, threatening spike-like helmets, which for all I know may be used as a bull’s horns.   
“Her Majesty ushered her desire for you to look at the chandelier and mirror decorations prepared for the Dauphin’s rooms and advise her on which are best fitting.”   
Rochefort’s snarl snaps me back into the present where I have to share a breathing space with him.   
“Of course. It will be an honour to aid Her Majesty.”  
With that the exchange between us is put to a welcoming end as we finally reach the doors leading to one of the halls.   
The room is one of the biggest halls in the palace. Its vastness is quite impressive and breathtaking, as well as slightly oppressive.   
“I’ll leave you to it.”  
Without waiting for my reply Rochefort walks away, the doors closing with a low thud behind him. At the sound of retreating footsteps, I breathe a sigh of relief and massage the back of my suddenly stiff neck. ‘Nothing more fun than selecting through a bunch of breakable things.Then again, what’s the worst that could happen?’  
Not once or twice have I been told that tempting fate has its price.   
***  
The high-pitched, banshee-like scream bounces off the walls, reaches the ceiling and collapses ; thus successfully engulfing the echoing of shattered glass. Immediately the clang of feet follows , yet I’m too dumbstruck to even flinch or attempt to clean the mess. The image of the huge mirror catching a ray of the sun and blinding me, slipping from my fingers and colliding with the floor still plays on repeat in front of my eyes.   
“What’s going on!” The guard burst into the room, ready to quarrel like an old woman about the racket at this hour, until his eyes land one me.   
“Good Lord!” He mutters before immediately turning on his heels and running off, as if Satan himself is chasing him.  
‘What’s his problem? It’s not like he just shattered God knows how expensive mirror!’ Fuming and shaking my head, I bend down to pick the bigger chunks of glass. A few drops of blood grab my attention, yet I discard them as small cuts . While fussing over how exactly am I to explain this to the Queen without sounding like an incompetent idiot with jelly fingers, the thudding of more feet reaches my ears. Not having the chance to even stand up, the doors are thrown open and Constance rushes to my side, hands spread open to hug me. Yet soon she stops dead, her eyes wide and hands shooting up to cover her mouth.   
“What-?” Sudden burning pain chokes me and I look down at my arm.  
What initially was placed as a cut turns out to be a gash that starts from the base of my thumb and travels all the way up to my elbow. Blood flows out profusely and for all I know, half my fluid may have leaked out while I was gaping at the pieces sparkling on the marble floor. ‘Is transfusion applicable in 17th century?’ A small hysteric yelp rips from my chest before the room suddenly spins. Wasn’t it for Constance’s fast reaction, I’d have hit the floor and further tore myself open.   
“Call the physician!” My friend’s voice is an unrecognisable shriek as she appears mortified beyond belief.   
“It is okay, Constance. It’s just a cut.”  
She helps me into a chair and somehow fetches a cloth, which she applies pressure over the wound with. Her hands are shaking so badly that the now almost soaked rag jumbles around, tugging at the wound.   
“Hey! Look at me! Everything will be fine. ” Squeezing her shoulder with my good hand, I try to appear calm   
Her dewy eyes are wide and filled with fear, yet with admirable self-persuasion she manages to compose herself .I see the emotions skipping over her face in rapid succession and the wheels in her mind spinning vigorously; she reaches a resolution and the sorrow melts into cool resolve. Squeezing my hand she nods. Moments later, the physician runs into the room, panting.  
“Doctor Lemay.”   
The man is tall and lean, with grizzled hair and nice and amicable face adorn by huge innocent-looking hazel eyes. In a few long strides he comes to stand by my side and examines the wound.   
“It’s not too deep and no fatal damage has been done.”  
Lemay’s voice wavers at the end , but that’s mostly due to a certain degree of excitement than actual distressed. As expected, doctors have this unconventional inclination to be intrigued by their patients’ pains more than acceptable; I’m bleeding to death here and he appears fascinated with the width and length of the cut.   
“But it will need stitches.”  
‘Of course, why not? What’s next, a cast?’ My head is pounding in tack with the erratic drumming of my heart. Slowly and consistently the sensibility in the injured arm begins to drain away. At one point I can no longer feel or move my fingers.   
“Then sew me up, Doctor.” The raspiness of my voice makes it sound like a dying wheeze.   
Constance is quickly send to fetch a bowl of clean water while Lemay rips the sleeve of my dress off, examines the wound further and prepares one quite sharp-looking needle. The entire crowd that came to peep from behind the doors is pushed out by the guards so at least no one will witness my demise in the hands of a small mini-dagger. Constance expresses her desire to stay behind and help Monsieur Lemay, yet with a single shake of his head he sends her away. Once the doors close behind her back I finally address the kneeling man before me about the severity of the cut.  
“I was truthful when I said the cut is not deadly. It is the amount of blood you lost that worries me.”  
A hiss of pain gets stuck in my throat as I bite the inside of my cheek when he dabbles the wound with something that can only be a form of sanitiser . Soon enough the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth with its coppery tint.  
Once sure there’s no risk of infection, Lemay looks up at me with a last questioning look. The mute shake of my head is indicative enough that I neither need anaesthetics, nor do I want to bite into someone’s belt. Respecting that and proceeding with his work, I decide to focus my gaze towards the window. Black spots are already clouding my vision, yet soon enough the probing of the needle and the pain that follows act as a bucket of cold water; whatever dizziness there was, it’s now gone. I feel each and every piercing motion, the thread sewing together the ripped skin, the pulsation of the still spilling blood and the erratic hammering of my heart in my chest so acutely, that for a whole second I feel like my body is vibrating.   
“I’m almost done.”  
Lemay’s words barely breach the walls I have erected around my mind so to protect it from a complete shutdown “You are ready.” The announcement shoves me back to the present.  
Looking down at my arm, I find it stitched and bandaged. The white linen hides more than half of it Flexing my hand cautiously and containing a small hiss of pain at the tugging of the skin, I nod my approval.  
“Pardon me for asking, but how are you feeling?” Doctor Lemay is now standing a few steps away and examines me with the look of a man who’s thoroughly worried.  
“Apart from dizzy and weak, good I guess.”   
He stares at me for a minute or so, his unwavering eyes making me twitch and shift, before finally looking away.   
“You didn’t make a sound throughout the whole procedure. In my field of work I have seen many men break down in tears under less pain than what you should have just experienced. And yet, you showed no sign of even the slightest discomfort?”  
Perplexed by this ‘abnormality’, the good doctor appears to possess the senses of a hound – he sniffs out everything that’s not supposed to be there and doesn’t let it go until it’s locked safely between his jaws.  
For a while I wonder whether sharing the tragic adventures of my past will ease his mind or throw it into even worse frenzy and whirlpool of questions. Being the rebellious little devil I was and not heeding my family’s warnings, more times than I can count needles have been probing my skin so to sew me back together. Plaster has been wrapped around both my hands and legs twice at least and even my head got glued at one point after I almost cracked it open. For a man as Lemay, such medical excursions may prove to be a tale worth sharing, yet something tells me he won’t take it that well.   
“It’s not the first time I need stitches. My pain tolerance is quite high by this point.” Shrugging and heading to the door with slow steps, I dismiss the subject.  
Accepting that, the he lends me his elbow to lean on. Thankful for the silent support, a small smile graces my face for a moment, the appreciation clear in my still hazy eyes. His unsure ones prove that whatever he thinks of me keeps him conscious of the fact that I’m in no way like all the rest.   
Outside, the hall is enveloped in suffocating silence, buzzing with tension to the point where if I light a candle everything will go ablaze. Constance is nestled in a fancy armchair near the window, yet at the sound of the door creaking open she bolts up, as if stung. Rushing to my side, in her eyes I see the inner battle to stop her body’s natural reaction to pull me into a bone-crushing hug.   
“Mademoiselle Bellanger is out of any mortal danger, yet I’d advise against any stress or exertion of the injured arm.”   
Constance’s head bobs up and down vigorously as she literally soaks in each and every syllable that leaves Monsieur Lemay’s mouth. The desire to snort and roll my eyes at all this fuss over a cut is way too strong to ignore, yet after stealing a glance at Aramis (where did he come from?) and seeing the slight scorn in his watchful eyes, I suffice with a low huff.   
“Mademoiselle, this is no small injury.” The plea in his voice makes me involuntarily grit my teeth. “It will be in your greatest interest to refrain from any activities for a while .”  
“I have a whole room to plan, Monsieur Lemay and as much as I appreciate your concern and professional advice , I know best what’s good for me. Yet I will take your words for consideration.”  
The last part gets added quickly after the look my dear friend throws me. If glares could kill, I’d have dropped dead in an instant.   
“I dearly hope so.”   
Another look of mutual understanding and concern passes between the goody-two-shoes doctor and Constance before the first bows respectably and leaves. Left alone in the company of two trusted, yet highly concerned friends, I fight back a tired sigh at what’s to come. ‘Why do these things always happen to me?’ A low, humming yet persistent headache begins to form in the back of my skull, and not for a first time the craving for a cup of freshly brewed coffee fills my mouth with saliva. As soon as the last of Lemay’s departing steps fades away, Constance bounces on me like a mother hen, with her plumage all bristled.   
“You must listen to what he said, Val. This is no small cut and it needs healing.”  
Her slender hands are crossed over her chest, the line of her lips is straight and the small wrinkle between her delicate eyebrows is dead giveaway that there is a storm right behind the corner, brooding and dark. Not for a first time do I need to be tactic rather than bold and try and manoeuvre around her predatory gaze.   
“I agree with Madame Bonacieux. It will be most unwise if you reopen those stitches and further hurt yourself. I know a friend of mine that will for certain be terribly worried if you happen to further injure yourself.”  
Well, make those two predatory gazes. The look of betrayal that crosses my face is short-lived, yet by the way Aramis flinches I know he saw it. Not to mention that bringing Athos into the conversation i a hit below the waist.  
“I meant what I told Doctor Lemay – there’s a room waiting to be decorated, a royal couple to which I have to explain how exactly I managed to shatter a mirror and…” Stopping the next chain of words concerning a certain male, who appears to be the leading perpetrator of unrest in me, I shake my head.  
“I understand. And I will try and be careful, but you cannot expect me to just flop down on the bed and pretend to be dying.”  
“That’s not what I meant.” Offended that I twisted her words, Constance is at the verge of forcefully dragging me to my room as if I’m a spoiled little brat.   
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t disappoint the Queen, Constance. Some things are more important than a wound.”  
Grasping her hands in mine and squeezing them, I hope against all hope that she’ll see the rightness of my words and cave in. Thankfully, a telltale defeated sigh slips past her lips.  
“I’m just worried about you, that’s all. You have been so distant and distracted these past few days.”  
Too late sensing her mistake in sharing that in front of Aramis, Constance stiffens and throws me an apologetic look.   
“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry so much ‘bout me.”   
Hugging her gingerly with my good arm. When I finally meet Aramis’ warm chocolate eyes, he sorrow and sympathy there make me tense and shift with unease, as if I have done something bad. A few seconds of silence follow, in which I avoid the silent plea there, before finally collecting all the remainings of my strength and preparing for the inevitable.  
“I must explain all this to Their Majesties before Rochefort opens his hissing mouth and distorts the facts.”

/***/

“It could have gone worse.” Constance accompanies me back to my rooms, where I have been instructed to rest until further notice.  
The audience with the King and Queen was a rather traumatising experience, more so than the whole stich-my-hand-back-together fiasco. While Her Majesty swallowed down the newly added expense with the stoic face of resolve and a hint of understanding and sympathy, her husband was ready to bazooka my ass out of the face of France. Many of the words he shot my way stayed incomprehensible either because of their outdatedness, or the slur of fast pronunciation. Either way, I was scolded so vigorously that red blotches covered my décolletage area as well as my face to the point where I might have as well turned into a rose.   
“Yeah. If Rochefort had had the chance to be there first, it would have went downhill in the span of a second.”   
Fuming and marching down the long deserted corridors like a woman on a mission, I try to keep my mind working, the wheels spinning and the adrenaline pumping. The pain in the wounded arm varies from uncomfortable pulling of the skin and itching to fierce burning as if a whacked Chihuahua is chewing on it with its little dagger-like teeth. Currently the pain-meter flashes in obscure red and I find myself forced to clench my teeth in order not to emit a single sound of discomfort and thus alert the already anxious Constance. When the barely distinguishable echo of familiar voices reaches my ears, it makes me halt abruptly, almost knocking her down on her bum. What seconds ago I consider fast thudding of my heart appears to be nothing compared to the banging hits within my ribcage after hearing Athos’ voice amongst his friends’.   
“Val! Gosh, you paled!” The hushed and worried voice of my friend pulls me out from the inside of my brain, where on repeat plays one dreadful scene after another.  
“I’m alright. Let’s go around.” My lips have gone dry in mere seconds and now feel as if they haven’t uttered a single word in days. “Please, let’s go the other way!”  
Yet despite that , my feet refuse to even bulge from their spot, thus allowing the voices to come closer. True to Constance’s words, I can feel all the blood draining from my face, leaving a sickly-pale residue behind, and collecting in my very centre. ll that pressure forms a tight knot in the pits of my stomach and dreadful nausea pervades my system, making me alarmingly light-headed.   
“You need to sit down.” Constance’s losing her equanimity as fast as I lose colour and stability.  
“Yes.”   
It’s as if someone else spoke in that moment. My whole being is intently watching the corner, expecting any second the four men to appear with their broad-brimmed hats and blue capes. The thudding of their feet reverberates within the vast corridor, the sound of their voices raises up to the ceiling and brings their words to us. Yet despite the panic, or due to it, I cannot even flinch. That’s why when Constance forcibly drags me aside and leans me against a pillar, the second I spot Athos appearing behind the corner, my feet give up underneath me and I not so gracefully slump down at the base of the marble monument.   
“Valary!” The yell muffles the thudding of feet and the flapping of mantles as people come running to my aid.  
Closing my eyes and leaning my head against the cool surface of the pillar, I pray to any god that may be out there that this be just a nightmare and I have fallen asleep in the hall with the mirrors, or died there, whichever works best; anything but being here with Athos’ hands holding me, his odour engulfing me and soothing my nerves with its familiarity and his radiant blue eyes poking holes through me.   
“Look at me. Valary, look at me.” The urgency in his voice compels my drained body to obey.  
My eyelids flutter open and for a few precious seconds the only thing I can see is the intense blue of his eyes, and my reflexion. My image swims within a deep sea of sorrow, fear, regret and what may or may not be affection. Led by some unknown power, my lips part and taking all my leftover strength with a single word, his name leaves me as a sigh of relief.


End file.
